


The Sword of the Morning

by TheHornedSerpent



Series: The Sword of the Morning [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Arya, Canon Related, Dany goes mad but in a believable way, F/M, Just two Dornish bastards with the same first name, Not Elia Sand from the Sand Snakes, Political Jon, Prophecies actually mean something, R Plus L Equals J, Season 8 Fix It, The Prince That Was Promised, The Three Eyed Raven is actually helpful, Tyrion is actually still clever, Up until they attack Winterfell, bamf Sansa, season 8 fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-01-25 17:01:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 46
Words: 125,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21359614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHornedSerpent/pseuds/TheHornedSerpent
Summary: Having grown up a bastard, Elia, daughter of Ser Arthur Dayne, never thought to worry about the game of thrones.  But the dragon queen is desperate for allies, and with House Martell completely obliterated, she now relies on the idea of resurrecting House Dayne to keep her southern allies.With the threat of the war to the north and south, and enemies once more within her home, Sansa Stark must become a major player in the game of thrones to earn back independence for her kingdom. But can she destroy so many monsters without becoming one herself?Picks up 8x01.  Follows multiple POVs, including but not limited to Jon, Sansa, Arya (what can I say... I love my Stark babies), Dany, and Tyrion.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jaime Lannister & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Tyrion Lannister/Original Female Character(s), minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters - Relationship, minor Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth - Relationship
Series: The Sword of the Morning [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937224
Comments: 269
Kudos: 327





	1. Elia

**ELIA**

Elia Sand matched her opponent’s steps, moving left for every one of his steps right so that they stayed trained on each other in a perfect circle. Sweat dripped down her face and underneath her leather armor. She glanced to her trainer, Ser Harlan Blackmont, watching how he watched her. Her opponent – some lower house’s best swordsman, according Ser Harlan – must’ve thought her distracted and lunged forward with his blunted sword. She disarmed him in three moves, finishing with her blade pressed against his neck.

“Good. Again,” Ser Harlan said.

She threw the short man back his sword before raising her own, but the doors to their left opened, revealing her mother. Elia had told since she was a girl that the only trait her father had given to her was her eyes – one his pale blue and the other a deep violet found in Dayne line from the blood of the First Men. Her father, Ser Arthur Dayne, who she had never met but heard about in great length. 

Elia had always been told that she was as beautiful as any Dornish woman, but it was her eyes from her father that had men begging for her hand in marriage, despite her being a bastard. But she had no time to worry about love, not when she had her father’s shoes to fill. He was the last Dayne to also be called Sword of the Morning, a title she longed to fill but never could, given her bastard’s name and being a woman.

“Miss Arianne, what brings you here?” Ser Harlan said, signaling for them to wait on their duel as he stepped between them and her mother.

“My apologies for interrupting your training, Ser Blackmont,” her mother said with a slight curtsey. She had learned her courtesies over the past two decades, but she had only been a handmaiden before Elia’s birth. Her tone was level, but Elia could see by how tightly she held her skirts that something was not right. “I’d like to speak with my daughter – in private – if possible.”

“Of course,” Ser Harlan said. He bowed to her before turning to leave, but not before looking back at her opponent. “Come, let’s give the ladies their privacy.”

Elia waited until the door closed behind the pair before walking over to her mother. She took her by both hands before leading her to a bench meant for spectating. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

In response, her mother handed her over a raven’s scroll, sealed with a three-headed dragon stamp. “It just arrived… sealed with the stamp of House Targaryen,” her mother whispered, as if she didn’t even trust the walls with her secrets. “Addressed to you.”

“To me?” Elia asked. “What would the queen want with a Dornish bastard? She knows she has no love this far south.”

“I fear whatever it is, it’ll be your ruin,” Mother said, her hand still clutched around her daughter’s trembling. “But throwing it away in a fire shan’t stop the evils that family brings, as much as I should wish for it.”

With nothing left to say, Elia broke the seal and slowly smoothed the curled parchment. 

_Elia of Dorne,_

_I write to you with the knowledge that loyalty runs thick in your blood, as your father Ser Arthur was my brother’s most trusted ally and friend. I know our allegiance has been torn by my father’s madness, but I wish to rebuild Westeros to give it another era of peace, this one never-ending. You know that Cersei is no better queen than my father was king. She has destroyed the House of Martell, happy to leave Dorne in a state of utter chaos. Her family has never cared for the south, evidenced by her father’s order to rape and kill the woman that you were so lovingly named after. I implore for your help in finally breaking the wheel that has terrorized Westeros. _

_In good faith, I name you Elia Dayne, true-born daughter of Ser Arthur Dayne, Lady of Starfall, and Princess of Dorne. All I ask in return is that you pledge your men to me and defend King’s Landing and the Seven Kingdom from this savage queen. I invite you and your men to Winterfell, where I am headed now to help Lord Snow and the North defeat the army of the dead that wishes to kill everyone in the Seven Kingdoms. I look forward to your swift response, and to rekindling a once powerful bond between Houses Targaryen and Dayne._

_Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons_

“The dragon queen… she’s named me a Dayne,” Elia breathed, her vision already blurring with tears. “Can it really be so simple?”

Her mother tore the scroll from her hands, face blushing a fierce red as her eyes narrowed. She crumbled the paper and spat on the ground. “Look at her, giving herself so many titles she nearly couldn’t fit them on the scroll.”

“But most of them were earned, if the stories are true, not given to her by birthright,” Elia said, taking the paper back before carefully smoothing it along the bench. “And she’s right about Cersei. She’s even worse than her father and will be a poison to the Seven Kingdoms if continued to be allowed to sit on that godsforsaken throne.”

Her mother paled, licking her lips as she rolled back her shoulders. “You intend to take her offer.” It wasn’t a question. The two women knew each other better than themselves, as any mother and daughter left alone in the world together would. “To fight her war for the Iron Throne or to fight this fictitious war against the dead?”

“Both, if it’ll give me father’s name,” Elia said. She tucked the scroll into her sleeve before taking her mother’s hands in her own, the cool sweat coating them telling her just how scared the woman truly was. “Power means safety and stability. We’ll no longer have to depend on lords for their kindness in housing us. I know Lord Dryland has been kinder than most, but don’t think I don’t know all that they have demanded of you – _taken_ from you. If I’m Lady Dayne, I can protect you. No man can ever take advantage of you again!”

“Don’t you dare do it for me. I’m your mother, not the other way around. It’s my job to protect you.”

“I’m doing it for myself, too,” Elia said, allowing ice to slip into her words. For years, she’d been applauded by lords for her skill with a sword – most claiming her as talented as her father – but their praises had become no more than whispers to a wall. She was a woman and a bastard. Who would stand behind _her_? “Father’s blood and my talents have meant nothing until today. Now, I can finally follow his footsteps. I finally have a chance to be named Sword of the Morning.”

Her mother took a deep breath, closing her eyes as her head fell into a soft nod. “Very well. You’ve always been just as stubborn as he, and I can’t tell you to not pursue his title you so obviously deserve.” Elia smiled at her, happy for a mother who allowed for disagreements of choices, even for something as important as this. “If your dragon queen hasn’t already, I’ll help draft your scrolls to send ravens to all of the Dornish lords. And you should write to your Northern friend, Lady Kylis; it never hurts to have a friendly face, especially when you are somewhere as cold and dead as the North.”

“Oh, yes!” Elia said, clapping her hands together. She had almost forgotten about her friend. They had met when the fierce woman had courted her cousin Edric, before he had fallen ill and passed away with both women at his side. The shared pain of his death had increased their love, and it was Kylis who had comforted her when the lords of Dorne demanded Starfall not fall to a bastard. It had been nearly three years since they had last seen one another, and the idea of their reunion had excitement swirling in her belly. “I’ll write to her right away, but before anything, I need to respond to the queen to let her know that I accept her terms.”

Both women turned as the door again creaked open, and Ser Harlan’s head peaked through. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but they’re about to begin cooking dinner, and I wanted to ask if you’d prefer boar or cow for the evening.”

Elia shrugged, and so her mother pulled her to standing before turning to the knight with a grin so wide only Elia would be able to tell it was forced. “Whichever meat is richest. We are celebrating! Ser Blackmont, I’d like to reintroduce you to my daughter,” she said, sweeping her hands towards her daughter in a grand gesture. “Elia of House Dayne, Lady of Starfall, and Princess of Dorne.”


	2. Daenerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, again! I've always been a huge fan of Daenerys, and 80% of my Game of Thrones stuff is House Targaryen. But I could never see the story ending with her on the Iron Throne, and I'm not opposed to the Mad Queen plot. I might not want it for her, but it's a very Martin-esque idea. You just have to do it right... cue my first chapter from the dragon queen.

**DAENERYS**

Jon Snow had warned her that the North would be cold, but she had not expected to feel ice clawing at her skin under so many furs. The land was an ocean of white, with still more snow floating from the sky in small flakes. Dawn was approaching quickly, and with it the promise that they were less than an hour away from Winterfell. After a week stuck at sea and another week confined to horseback, Daenerys was ready to sleep in a feather bed, enjoy a feast fit for a queen, and most importantly, meet the family that her lover so dearly obsessed over.

As their parade finished the trek through the most recent town and they were once more surrounded by snow-covered forest, she turned to Jon. He hadn’t spoken since waking up that morning, but she knew better than to worry. Nearly two months of companionship had taught her that his silence could mean a great many things, and being so close to returning to home, she knew he couldn’t be anything but happy. Even if his lips were set into a straight line and she found no joy in his eyes.

“This is my first time seeing snow,” she said, smiling warmly as his eyes snapped to her. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

“It’s good you like it,” Jon said, turning back to the road in front of them. She frowned, not for the first time missing the way his grey gaze had stayed fixed on her at all hours as when they had been on the boat. “Winter is coming, and the snowfall will only grow worse as the Night King draws nearer.”

Daenerys tried to think of a response, but words failed her. It seemed anything she said would be brought back to the army of the dead, and while she couldn’t entirely blame Jon, she longed for his affection in place of his counsel. But Jon was just as cold as his homeland, and so she would have to wait for the joys of returning to Winterfell to bring back the fire she knew he hid underneath his cool exterior. The same one she’d felt back in the cave in Dragonstone and when he’d accepted her invitation to her chambers.

She allowed them to remain in companionable silence until they reached another town. They heard the crowd before they saw them, and again she turned to Jon. “And this one?”

“Winter Town,” he said gruffly, knowing what her question meant, as she had asked the name of each town they marched through. He was now seated straighter atop his black mare, and once they reached the flocks, she relished in his contentment at seeing their people. “We’re but a twenty minutes ride from Winterfell now, I’d guess with the people clogging the streets.”

“If we pass anywhere from your childhood you remember, please point it out,” she said, happily looking around at the people. They didn’t cheer, nor did they shout out praises for their queen, but Jon had already warned her of how the North felt about outsiders. He said that she’d have to earn their trust, and she would once they watched her dragons set the dead ablaze. She would win this kingdom and all the others just as her ancestors had before her, with fire and blood.

“My brother Robb came here often, but I only did once,” he replied, oblivious to her internal battle over his people’s lack of love. “It’s not a story worth telling. I left before any of the excitement happened.”

“A shame,” Daenerys said, but then he was faced away from her, waving to the townsfolk. 

If he didn’t want her attention, so be it. She turned to her people, too, smiling at them even as they stared at her with glassy eyes. Some even looked as though they hated her, but she knew that to be a falsehood. How could they, when she had pledged her armies and dragons to save them from extinction?

As if hearing her thoughts about them, Drogon and Rhaegal screeched overhead. People screamed as she looked skyward, her lips stretching into a grin at seeing her children. They had disappeared throughout the night, but she knew they wouldn’t leave her alone when entering the den of wolves. She breathed in the Northerner’s fear like fresh air, happy to show them that she was indeed the queen of legends they’d been promised. 

The air seemed to warm with her children’s presence, and she snuggled into it happily as she goaded her horse slightly faster. Jon instantly matched her pace, one brow raising to ensure she was alright. She beamed at him. “I’m glad to show my children your home. Perhaps once the threat of the Night King is done, we can fly them across the Seven Kingdoms – show the people our power and allegiance to one another.”

“Mayhaps,” Jon said, his jaw ticking as he continued to nod greetings to the townspeople.

When he didn’t elaborate, she took a deep breath, doing her very best to show only flirtation and not her irritation at his dismissal… not when they were so plainly in sight of his people. “Mayhaps? Do you not yearn for peaceful travels with your queen?”

He turned to her, then, _finally_, with a smile so soft it was barely there. “My wants aren’t the concern. But the Warden of the North belongs in the North, Your Grace, especially after I’ll be gone again as soon as the dead are defeated to help win you your throne. I’m sure my siblings would have something to say if I tried to leave again so soon.”

“Ah, yes. I can’t wait to meet them, especially Lady Sansa,” Daenerys said, pursing her lips. Ever since they’d come back from beyond the wall, he’d mentioned his red-haired sister more and more. It was apparent that he considered her counsel above all others, but that wasn’t what bothered her. It was how he mentioned her name thrice as many as his other siblings, besides claiming Arya his favorite and the crippled one Bran having only just returned barely two weeks prior. It was how Tyrion also spoke highly of her, claiming her mind to be as sharp as Jon’s sword, and telling her stories of when they were married together in the Red Keep. It was how even Ser Barristan insisted that she needed to win the woman over to truly secure her hold on the North. “I’m sure you’re excited to see her again – and Arya and Bran, too. When was the last time you saw them?”

“Both before I left for the Wall,” he said, his shoulders relaxing as red flushed against his cheek. She followed his gaze to see a tall tower of black stone, and instantly knew it had to be Winterfell. They were so close. “Bran wasn’t even awake then, after his fall.”

“You left him not knowing if he would survive,” she said solemnly, reaching out for his hand when he nodded. She squeezed it, ignoring when she felt him try to pull away, and instead only holding him tighter. “You were so brave, to give up so much, so young. I look forward to meeting more of your brothers from the wall, too. Ser Barristan sang praises of the late lord commander, Mormont, and I know you loved him, too. Even my brother, idiot that he was, knew to honor the black knights.”

Jon’s only response was silence, but she stubbornly watched him for another few more seconds before relenting and letting go of his hand. He flung it back to his reigns as if she’d been burning him, and for the thousandth time that trip, she wished for them to be back in the hidden halls of her ships. Where they could love one another without hundreds of eyes staring and assessing.

When they approached the far edge of town and she could see even more of Winterfell, Daenerys let herself soak in the castle in all its wintery glory. Rhaegal had landed on one of the tallest towers, and he breathed fire into the winter’s wind as though he hoped to warm it. It was nothing like the castles she’d seen in Essos, or even King’s Landing, from what she’d seen depicted in the books Jorah had given her on her wedding day to Drogo. No, Winterfell was different. It was a dark and cold place that bred dark and cold men.

The gates screeched open, and as she pushed her horse forward, she noticed the line of people ready to greet their new queen. Daenerys recognized Sansa the moment her eyes fell on her red hair, standing out like a flame in a dark cave against the castle’s black and the snow’s white. The woman was watching them with a face so impassive it rivaled her half-brother’s – and so Daenerys blamed their Northern upbringing for why Lady Sansa did not mirror her greeting smile, and instead looked to the cripple seated in what Jon had called a wheelchair. His glassy expression prickled goosebumps up Dany’s back, and she had to fight back a violent shiver. She could blame it on the cold, but something in the red wolf’s stare told her she’d known what it was. Not fear, but whatever equivalent Daenerys could afford herself to feel in its place.

Jon jumped off his horse before holding out his hand to her, and she accepted it gratefully. Even with their thick gloves, she enjoyed the heat that always seemed to roll off of him, taking a step closer as he guided her towards his family. She could hear her advisors (Tyrion, Barristan, Varys, Kinvara) all come off their own steads, but they weren’t the ones she owed her attention to.

Before any greetings were made, Jon let go of Daenerys to hug his sister. She watched as his arms circled around her, holding her so tightly the lady nearly stumbled back. Lady Sansa leaned into the embrace with a warm smile, before her eyes fluttered to Daenerys. Not a single muscle in her face ticked, yet it seemed to freeze all the same. When she let go of her brother, eyes still on her new queen, Jon kneeled before his brother.

“Bran, look at you,” he said, leaning in for yet another hug. “You’re a man now.”

“Almost,” the cripple said, without returning the hug. His attention was already on the queen, and she almost frowned when he followed his sibling’s lead to not return her smile.

Jon noticed this when he pulled back, and he pushed himself back to his feet, ignoring the snow that still clung to the bottom of his legs. “Where’s Arya?” he asked, clearly unrushed in introducing anyone.

“Lurking somewhere,” Sansa said simply. Jon had told her that Arya was as wild and fierce as any wolf, and she supposed from the lady’s lack of concern, this sort of behavior was to be expected. It still didn’t quell the fire that sparked in her stomach, though.

“Well, then,” Jon said, running his hands over his beard before stepping back so he was in his rightful spot, by her side. “Sansa, Bran, I’m happy for you to finally meet Daenerys, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Daenerys slid her gaze to him as he didn’t add any more of her titles, and nearly called for Missandei to make the introduction properly until he continued, “And Dany, this is my sister, Lady Sansa of Winterfell, and our brother Bran Stark.”

“He has told me so much about you, both of you,” she said, tipping her head to both of them before focusing on his sister. “My lady, Winterfell is as beautiful as your brother described. As are you.”

The red wolf smiled in a way almost feral, but then she dropped into a curtsey and bowed her head. “Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.”

Daenerys hummed, enjoying the title even more than normal from the lady’s mouth. Varys had told her that many Northern lords had sought to replace her for Jon as queen while he was away, and even with his reports that she only demanded loyalty to her half-brother and his decisions in return, she had worried that it would be harder to have the Northern woman bend the knee.

She looked back to the gentlemen and ladies standing behind the Starks, ready to continue on with introductions when Bran spoke up, “We don’t have time for more pleasantries. The Night King has resurrected Viserion and has breached the Wall. The dead army marches this way as we speak.”

Daenerys saw red at his news, fire burning at her recent loss of her child. The Night King had no right. _No right_ to take her child as his own. She was their mother. Both Drogon and Rhaegal shrieked so loudly a few of the lords jumped, their heart’s burning with their mother’s for their fallen brother.

Lady Sansa didn’t seem surprised by the news, but Jon’s mouth had fallen open. He clamped it shut before reaching out for Dany, his grip tight around her arm as he began forward. “We have no time, then,” he said before turning to the lords. “My apologies, lords and ladies, but we have to move to the Great Hall. Winter is coming.”

Not just the Stark words anymore. Daenerys brushed past Lady Sansa and the cripple as she followed Jon inside. He was saying something, but she couldn’t hear him. Her entire being was consumed thinking of her poor child and the desecration the Night King showed her fallen son. The Starks weren’t the only ones whose words held truth past ideology.

The dead would see fire and blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had to bring Kinvara to Westeros, because you would think the High Priestess of the Lord of Light would want to be there when living fight the dead. Also, my apologies on any inaccuracies as far as maps, travel lengths, and just geography in general. I'm sure there will be inaccuracies, but hey, I'm only human.
> 
> Also, in the future expect my updates on Wednesdays, my gift to you as a mid-week pick-me-up. :)


	3. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *tells you I'm going to post every Wednesday*
> 
> Also me: *doesn't post literally the first Wednesday after that*
> 
> Wow... I am so sorry y'all... my chapters are on my desktop, and I completely forgot to transfer it to my laptop before leaving for my sister's wedding weekend (I was the MOH, so left early to help prepare)... so here is Chapter 3! I promise I'll actually follow through and you'll see another update this Wednesday. Thank you so much for being patient! :)

**SANSA**

The dragon queen was everything that Sansa had suspected: proud in a way that reminded her of Joffrey, beautiful in a way that reminded her of Margaery, and simple in a way that reminded her of her past self. With the two dragons flying overhead, the thousands of Unsullied soldiers, and the tens of thousands of Dothraki cavalry men, she couldn’t deny the smarts behind Jon bringing the Targaryen’s forces to fight the dead with their men. But, as she looked into the woman’s violet eyes and saw the way they stared adoringly at her half-brother, she was inclined to believe that her armies weren’t the entire reason Jon had bent the knee. He was more difficult to read, but she hadn’t been able to rule out the love being mutual. He at least held affection for her, if he had been willing to spend a night in her chamber as her spies had reported. The very thought of it made her want to vomit.

The silver-haired conqueror was even sitting in Jon’s chair – the King of the North’s chair, not _hers_ – with him taking the spot that Sansa used to occupy. As men continued to file into the Great Hall, she took her spot to Jon’s right, nodding her greeting to their loyal bannermen and the Knights of the Vale. All welcomed her with warm smiles, none so much as glancing at Daenerys – except those who dared to glare openly. With Bran to her right, and Arya sitting in the back corner of the hall, she relaxed into her seat. There might be strangers in the hall, but this was her _home_, and it was filled with people who would lay down their lives for any of the Starks. She was safe.

Tyrion was standing off to Daenerys’s other side, whispering to a bald man she recognized as Varys, the Spider, a man she never expected to see again. _What is Ser Barristan Selmy doing in the company of the dragon queen?_ Folding one hand over the other, Sansa watched the trio, doing her very best to read their lips – and even leaning in once an older but handsome man joined them that Bran whispered was named Jorah Mormont, an exile Westerosi. _A Mormont?_ She was so intent on overhearing their conversation (and seething at her spies for reporting so little on the dragon queen’s counsel), that it took her several minutes to realize there was no conversation at her table. Although Jon and Daenerys sat next to one another, and she could see the wench’s hand on his leg, they weren’t otherwise acknowledging each other. _Interesting._

“I trust your journey was smooth,” Sansa said, a bead of sweat dripping down her neck despite the winter air as Jon turned to her with his ever intense grey eyes. As he looked at her, she realized how much she had truly missed him, but he would never know that. Because above everything, she was angry. Angry at him for leaving her. Winterfell. Their pack. Angry at him for bending the need to some woman. Who would claim she was better than Cersei because she was loaning them their army when the lion queen’s promise would fall through. Who was only helping them against _the army of the dead_ because they had promised her their army eternally after first.

“Smooth enough,” he said. He might’ve stopped there, had she not accepted the servant’s offer for wine. His eyebrows shot up, and the corner of his mouth twitched. His almost smile that twisted her stomach into knots. “You’re drinking?”

“One glass won’t hurt. Don’t worry,” she said, suppressing her grin as she watched the dragon queen fidget. She clearly didn’t like being out of their conversation, and that thought only made Sansa lean closer to him until she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek. “We need to properly welcome you back home. Arya and Bran have already agreed to meet in my solar after we’re done here, if you can join us.”

“Of course,” he said, but then his eyes widened, and he peeked behind his shoulder to his new queen. Had he forgotten her that quickly? “I’ll have to help Dany settle into whatever room you’ve prepared for her first, but I’ll come as soon as I’m done with her.”

“_Dany?_” Sansa hissed, her back snapping up straight away from him. He leaned into the space she had vacated, but she turned back to face the crowd. The hall was filled over capacity, with several men and women lined against the back wall. As the doors swung shut, signifying no more would come, she was thankful for the excuse to not focus on what he’d just said. That he already had a pet name for the dragon invader.

“Sansa,” he said lowly, his northern brogue thicker with emotion.

She ignored the way it raised the hair on her neck, only looking to him when she was sure he would see nothing in her eyes but ice. “You should begin the meeting before the lords grow impatient.”

“_Sansa,_” he repeated, a mixture of affection and irritation. “Please, don’t–”

“Your Grace.” Tyrion approached the table, his chin barely over its surface. He looked as though he’d aged ten years since she’d left him at Joffrey’s wedding. “I have wonderful news. We’ve just received a raven from Dorne.”

Daenerys smiled from ear to ear, and Sansa shifted. She hated not being the one to _give_ information, or at least know it in advance, and decided that before her siblings got together that afternoon, she would have to recruit more spies in the queen’s company. 

“She’s accepted,” Daenerys breathed. At Tyrion’s nod, she leaned back and sighed in obvious relief as she turned to Jon, but then her eyes landed on Sansa and her smile shifted into a smirk. Sansa kept her expression even. “My Hand told me of your marriage, and although I know it was forced upon you, I’m sure you know how lucky you were to be so privy to his cleverness.”

“What’s this news from Dorne?” Jon asked, and Sansa was thankful he did, so she did not have to give Daenerys the satisfaction of a false curtesy.

“Go on, Tyrion,” Daenerys said, waving at her past husband. “Tell them of your genius. Tell them how we bring even more men to fight alongside them against the dead.”

Tyrion pulled at his collar, glancing to Sansa for a moment before focusing on Jon. “I could bore you with the histories, but I’ll leave it at this. Queen Daenerys has legitimized the bastard daughter of Ser Arthur Dayne as the new Princess of Dorne. The kingdom’s armies were nearly destroyed by Euron Greyjoy’s fleet, but she’s managed to muster up an army of nearly two-thousand men. They march for Winterfell as we speak.”

“That’s excellent news!” Jon said, making a move to stand before shuffling back down. He turned to Sansa, cheeks now flushed red from his excitement. “You know as well as I how much even fifty good men can change a battle.”

“If they fight like the Mormonts, perhaps. But does Cersei really intend to let them march north?” Sansa asked in response. She hated the way his face fell at her comment, but the living demanded she stayed focused on the questions that others might not ask. She turned to Tyrion, knowing he should surely see this, too. “I know you’ve negotiated for temporary peace, but this is your sister. Will she really let two-_thousand_ men march past her when she knows they’ll turn their swords to her after?”

“She will,” Tyrion said firmly, as if it wasn’t even a question. She almost scoffed. “She has pledged her own armies here to fight alongside our own. She knows we need all the men we can get.”

“I used to think you were the cleverest man alive,” Sansa said. Tyrion blinked as she felt Daenerys tense two chairs over. She could press more, but they couldn’t afford to argue in front of so many. They had to provide a united front if anyone was to listen to them. So, she took a large sip of her wine, enjoying the taste of its dry bitterness, before turning back to the dragon queen. “It seems all the men and women that wish to be here, are. Would you like to begin, Your Grace?”

The queen grinned, surprising her by flapping towards the men. “We are in your home, my lady. Why don’t you begin?”

Sansa didn’t miss the way Tyrion’s shoulders sagged in relief or Varys nodded in agreement. So, her counsel warned her to treat the Lady of Winterfell well. At last, people who didn’t underestimate her. Once attention was called, Sansa looked to her brother, but spoke loudly enough so that everyone could hear her. “As soon as Bran saw what happened at the Wall, I called all our banners to retreat to Winterfell,” she said. Then, already knowing where each of her lords and ladies favored to sit, she turned to the child playing at lord. “Lord Umber, when can we expect your people to arrive?”

“We need more horses and wagons, if it pleases my lady,” he said, voice high like a mouse. As if remembering himself, his eyes widened, and he licked his lips. “And my lord… and my queen… my apologies.”

It was a miracle Sansa bit back her smile. She couldn’t imagine Daenerys enjoyed being but an afterthought but kept her focus on the task at hand. “You’ll have as many as we can spare. Hurry back to Last Hearth, and bring your people here,” she said.

“We need to send ravens to the Night’s Watch as well,” Jon said, surprising her. Even as king, he normally only spoke when spoken to, but she was glad for it. Their people desperately needed to be reminded of his wisdom. “There’s no sense in manning the castles anymore. We make our stand here.”

“At once, Your Grace.” Sansa wasn’t even sure who had spoken, but the words sparked an angry chatter amongst the crowd. She wasn’t surprised when Lyanna Mormont stood.

“‘Your Grace’? But you’re not, are you?” the little lady barked. “You left Winterfell a king and came back a – I’m not sure what you are now. A lord? Nothing at all?”

“It’s not important,” Jon groaned. Sansa would’ve laughed at his stupidity, but she couldn’t. They had to be a united front – but as he looked to her for help, she remained silent. She might’ve decided she wouldn’t make matters worse for him and his queen, but that didn’t mean she would sit here and defend his idiocy.

“Not important?” Lyanna cried. “House Mormont remembers. The North remembers. We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark.”

At her words, men jumped and cheered. “King in the North!” “King in the North!” “King in the North!” All the while, Sansa sipped more at her wine. It warmed her throat, and only added laughter to her thoughts. No wonder Cersei so enjoyed the beverage. It did wonders when surrounded by so many players without a single idea how to play the game. Daenerys sat completely still, but only a fool wouldn’t feel the anger that rolled off of her in waves. It was only a question of “when”, not “if” she would snap, especially if the lords continued.

“You did name me king, my lady,” Jon said. Sansa looked down to see that it was in fact his knee that was causing the table to groan and bounce, and she patted his knee. She might not support his argument, but she would still support _him_. He swallowed as he looked at her, before readdressing the small but mighty bear. “It was the honor of my life. I’ll always be grateful for your faith, but when I left Winterfell, I told you the truth of it. I told you we need allies, or we will die. I’ve brought those allies home to fight alongside us. Nearly one-hundred thousand men and two dragons. I had a choice – keep my crown or protect the North. I chose the North.”

Sansa stirred in her chair, realizing the truth of his words in their conviction. Mayhaps she was incorrect, and he didn’t bend the knee a love-sick puppy. Mayhaps he was infatuated with the woman, but not in love. There was still a chance to right his heart before it killed their pack.

When Tyrion stepped forward and began his speech about the Lannisters marching North to fight with them as well, the entire room erupted into chaos. He should’ve known better and left his lionhood in the south. Did he forget his house was responsible for all the evil the North had seen in the past decade? The beheading of their lord, her father? The slaughter of their king, her brother?

“May I ask, did you bring any food or grain with you?” Sansa asked. Despite the uproar of the room, she was still heard, and the lords fell into a respectful silence as they hung on for her every word. At Tyrion’s scowl, she knew his queen’s army hadn’t, and she sighed. “So, you bring us men that we must feed and shelter, when we have no time to readjust our plans? How are we meant to feed the greatest army the world has ever seen, then? While I ensured our stores would last through winter, I didn’t account for the Dothraki, Unsullied, and two full-grown dragons. What do dragons eat, anyway?”

Daenerys had stood at some point during Tyrion’s speech and now stood by their fire. She stayed there, staring at the dancing flames, as she answered in words as cold as Sansa’s own. “Whatever they want.”

Jon stood up so abruptly his chair nearly toppled over. He looked to Sansa, his eyes begging not to return the insult, and he looked so desperate Sansa had no choice to concede. At her nod, he sighed and turned back to the crowd. “My lords, my ladies. Thank you for your welcome today. The Night King and his army are nearly here, and we must be ready. What houses have yet to arrive?”

“Umber, Reed, Mazin, and Glenmore,” Sansa said. “They should all arrive by the end of the week.”

“Then we have a battle to prepare for,” Daenerys said, rising next to Jon and taking his arm. “Lords, I won’t waste anymore of your time.”

Sansa stood up and hurried out of the hall without looking back. She heard Jon call her in the hallway, as well as Tyrion, but she didn’t stop. She twisted through the halls she had memorized by the time she was three, pulling up her skirts as to quicken her pace until it was nearly a run. And she didn’t stop until she was safe inside the many acres of the godswood, falling to her knees in front of the weirwood tree.

She had learned after they’d won back Winterfell that this was one of few places that she could seek solitude, and with so many occupants in the castle, her other options were surely taken away. She was so sure of her promised solitude, that when she heard the crunch of footsteps behind her in the snow, she nearly growled.

“Sansa.” It was Jon. Of course, he would know where to find her. She stayed still, focused on the tree’s bleeding eyes as she heard him continue forward until he was in front of her. Determined to outbattle him in stubbornness, she looked at his chest, and when he dropped to his knees, down to the snow. She would not meet his gaze. “Sansa, will you please look at me?”

When still she refused, he reached out with his gloved hand and gently tugged up her chin. Her heart flipped as he moved to caress either cheek, holding just tightly enough that she was forced to look at him. She huffed, a small cloud of cold drifting between them. “You should be with your queen, helping her to settle into her rooms at Winterfell. You said so yourself.”

“Bran offered to after you stormed off. Dan– Daenerys was welcome for the chance to meet the last Stark son,” Jon said. “And she’s our queen, Sansa. She has to be, if any of us are to survive. It was the only way.”

“I know you believe that,” Sansa said, removing his hands from her face so that her heart could slow down. He refused to let go entirely, intertwining their fingers.

“Aye, I do,” he said, pulling them both back to their feet. The snow had already soaked into her dress, and she welcomed the cold despite the shivers it coursed through her spine. “If you were there, it might not have been. You could’ve come up with a different path, one where I didn’t have to bend the knee, and she still gave us her men. I almost wrote you a dozen times, but her advisor, Varys… He knew contents of messages that were never meant for his eyes, and I couldn’t trust anybody. I realized I had to make my choice without you, or she never would’ve come north.”

Sansa dug her free fingers into her palms so tightly she was almost drew blood. It was all she could do to hold onto her anger, when he explained it that way. When she knew he wanted to include her before making his decision but couldn’t. That he would’ve trusted her if he thought he could talk to her with the contents staying between them. If only she had taught him the tricks to sending secret messages that she had learned from Littlefinger, they would’ve been able to combat the dragon queen together.

“We’ll be stronger, now that we’re back together,” she said, mulling over her next words. She had to choose them carefully, as to not anger him when all she wanted was them to leave this discussion behind and go find Arya and Bran. “I just have one question, and I need you to answer frankly. I need to know the truth, so that I can protect our family.”

“Ask quickly, then,” Jon said, the twitch in his left eye the only sign he was nervous.

Sansa took a deep breath, readying herself for his possible anger. Or worse, ready confirmation. “Do you love her?”

“Wh– why would you ask that?” He pushed away and spun around so quickly, Sansa nearly fell. “You don’t think I bent the knee for the North. You think I did it because I love her.”

“No, I don’t,” Sansa said, pulling at his shoulder until he turned back to her. She would need to tell him more of the truth if she was to expect it in return so she stepped closer as she readied her confession. “I might’ve before, but I don’t anymore. I’m sorry for doubting you; I am, but I used to hear about her at the Red Keep. They used to talk how she’d make all the men around her fall in love with her with a single glance. How beautiful she is.”

“Have you no faith in me?” he whispered with closed eyes.

“As much as you have in me.” Sansa reached out for his hand again, relieved when he didn’t pull away, even as he still refused to look at her. “I know you didn’t bend the knee because you’re in love with her, but I still need to know if you are. People do stupid things when they’re in love, to no fault of their own, and we need to know so we can look after you.”

He opened his eyes then, shocking her with wetness so close to tears. “I don’t love her, but Sansa…” His grip on her tightened so much it hurt, but she refused to pull away. To do anything that might stop him from spilling his truths. “When we were beyond the wall, trying to find a wight to bring to Cersei – we were going to die. The army of the dead surrounded us completely. We had no chance of escape. And then she came with her dragons and burned the dead beneath her. She saved us, and it cost her one of her dragons. I don’t love her, but I owe her my life.”

Sansa dropped her hands from his. “Thank you for the truth,” she said, the words tasting like poison. She grabbed his arm, turning them back to Winterfell as she began to think up ways to stop his feelings from growing past where they already were. She could combat adoration and gratitude, if she was smart about it.

Jon swallowed loud enough for her to hear it, and she realized he wasn’t done. “There’s one more thing,” he said. Her sideways glance found shame on his face, and her grip on his arm tightened. “I did lay with her.”

Sansa smiled, confusing him further. The full truth. He chose to tell her the _full truth_. Jon was hanging his head sheepishly next to her, and she tried her best to keep her voice even as she asked, “And?”

“And it only happened once,” he said, pulling her to him by the waist until they were hip to hip. She blanched, trying to pull away, but his grip only tightened. She could feel everything, and her mind began to slip back into the feelings that had begun to blossom when they had reunited at Castle Black. Feelings that had no place anywhere, that made her too alike their enemies. “It was right after she saved me, and I had just healed. She slipped me a message inviting me to her chambers that night, and I– I did it. But I hated myself for it. I didn’t do it because– I don’t love her. It wasn’t right. It was just me trying to forget- it was from the heat of all that had happened. Nothing more.”

She studied him, trying her best to find anything past his desperation and sincerity. A warning that he hadn’t just given her his body, but his heart as well, despite his claims. “I suppose we should start preparing the North for your wedding,” she said finally, making him wince. 

Her anger had simmered, but she couldn’t let go of the heat still steaming in her stomach. She would only forgive him for kneeling once she secured a way to keep him from becoming Daenerys’s key to the North. She would not let Jon be stolen as she once had been sold, but that didn’t mean she would not let his decision go with no consequence. He would feel her anger.

“Even if you’re not in love with her, she’s clearly swept away by you. And even if she wasn’t, it also makes political sense – a way for her to secure the North. It would be no hardship for you; most men would consider themselves lucky to marry a bride as beautiful and powerful as her. You might not be King in the North anymore, but it looks as though you won’t lose your chance at the royal title.”

Jon pulled her forward, their foreheads hitting together painfully as she gasped. He held her there as his chest rise and fell, and both looked to the snow as his hands bunched at her skirts. “I will not leave Winterfell. I will not leave _you_,” he said, his voice a whisper with all the conviction of a shout. “Do you really think I could leave after everything we did to get it back? To return back home?”

Sansa pried his hands from her waist and stepped back. She was misinterpreting him again, naïvity blossoming heat in her core. The ghost of her past whispered hope in the back of her head. Trying to convince her that the love she saw so evident in his gaze was that of more than a brother. Anger or no, she would have to keep some distance from them on the chance she did something stupid.

_A stupid little girl. With stupid dreams who never learns._

“You’ve already left me once,” she said, and before he could respond added, “Arya and Bran are waiting for us. Look,” she motioned to where they watched from atop the castle’s wall. “We shouldn’t make them wait any longer. And I know how much you must miss them.”

Jon growled, so low and bestial she nearly thought it an animal before she saw his scowl. “Very well, but we’re not done with this conversation.”

_Oh, but we are,_ Sansa thought. Between both of their responsibilities, it’d be almost too easy for her to avoid being alone with him. But this was only half of the conversation she needed to hear to ensure her pack was safe. 

She needed to speak with the dragon queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the beginning of my hopes and dreams for Jonsa being realized. Now, for all my fellow shippers out there, let me make something clear. This is Westeros, not some fantasy land. Sansa can make mistakes. Jon can make mistakes. If you want them to do no wrong, this is not the fan fiction for you. If you think they're going to have smooth sailing in their love for one another, this is not the fan fiction for you. I will do their characters justice in the best way I know how, and without giving you any spoilers I can promise you two things in their future: 1) when Sansa eventually learns the truth about Jon's heritage, she will be smarter. And 2) Jon will not be a complete idiot. Not only will he risk the Seven Kingdoms only to keep a stupid promise, but he will do his damned best to play the game of thrones. With that said though, keep in mind he's still new at this. I would compare him to Sansa when she was 'Lady Lannister'.
> 
> Also, thoughts on House Reed coming to Winterfell to fight against the Night King with the other Northern houses?! Yet another victim of the show saying "nah, we don't have time for that"


	4. Cersei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving Eve everyone! Personally, I'm entering this holiday very blessed. Monday was the first day at my new job, and so far I'm loving it. Also, I'm thankful to have you lovely readers!
> 
> I hope your holidays are filled with good company and even better food :)

**CERSEI**

Cersei stared out at the space that used to be the Sept of Baelor, her heart clawing at her chest as she forced herself to imagine each of her children’s faces after they’d died. Joffrey blue and frothing. Myrcella with but a bleeding nose, and Tommen smashed to oblivion. She cradled her still flat belly, as she envisioned their dead faces over and over again. As atonement. As a warning.

This baby would be different – he or she, it didn’t matter. The witch had never seen this one’s life; this baby had hope. And she would rather set the entirety of King’s Landing ablaze with wildfire than let the dragon bitch take the Iron Throne from them.

There was a knock at her door, and Cersei called for them to come in without turning her head. She already knew it was Qyburn. Nobody else dared disturb her in her chambers, save whatever handmaiden had to bathe or feed her for the day.

“Your Grace, the White Walkers have breached the Wall,” he said, squeaky voice ever pleasant with good news.

“Excellent,” Cersei purred. She turned back to the room for a glass of wine, until she remembered her growing baby. “Send your spies as far north as safe. I want to know the instant the battle is won. How many soldiers survived. How many dragons. How many would-be usurpers. Everything.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he said, nodding his head as though arrangements had already been made. His spiny fingers tapped against each other in front of him, and he stepped further into her room. “My birds bring other news as well. The Targaryen has legitimized Ser Arthur Dayne’s bastard daughter. She marches north with two-thousand men, and it’s likely she’s also pledged those men to help take away your throne.”

Cersei’s hand slammed against the rail as she spun back towards the view of the city. It was her favorite place to stand. The people so far below they looked like ants, reminding her just how easy they would be to smush.

“Don’t worry, Your Grace. Loyalties can be bought,” he continued, smart enough to not come any closer to her. He was dutifully leaving out how ready the Dornish were to take up arms against her again, despite the fate of the Martells. Allegiances may wither away, but the Martells and Lannisters were proof that grudges never did. “Also, Euron Greyjoy and his fleet have just arrived with the Golden Company.”

“Finally,” she said, pushing herself away from the rail. “Tell them to meet me in the throne room.”

“At once, Your Grace, but before you go, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater is waiting just outside your door. You called an audience with him.”

“Oh, yes, send him in,” she said, moving to the table nearest the door. She stared at the pitcher of wine sitting along the wall again, wishing her baby would be born already as to not curse her with sobriety for the next eight months.

Bronn entered into her room, looking around with obvious curiosity as his hand sat atop the pommel of his blade. “Your Grace,” he said, tipping his head lightly as he swaggered more into the room. “I was told you have a proposition that would make me a lot of money.”

“Indeed,” Cersei said, motioning for him to sit. She grimaced as he scraped the chair back, and it screeched against the floor. She sat up straighter, doing her best to tolerate the newly rich lowborn as long as it took for him to agree to her plans. Both Jaime and Tyrion spoke highly of his skill, but they had also told her the one thing they could rely on about him was his greed. “As you know, both my brothers are traitors to the crown and the Seven Kingdoms. They are both in Winterfell, readying for their fight against the dead.”

“Aye,” he said, stretching back and relaxing his hands behind his head. “Was under the impression you and your armies would be up there north with them.”

Cersei laughed then, the sound both light and venomous. “I will not waste my men’s lives for a battle than can be won without their sacrifice,” she said, waving away any guilt he’d tried to bestow on her. No, she was doing the right thing. With the Golden Company at her back, and the dragon queen’s forces weakened from the upcoming battle, the Iron Throne was hers for the keeping. “Both my brothers will be valuable assets for the Northern rebels in the fight to come, but should they survive the night, I want you to kill them. And in return for your devotion to the crown, I will award you five-thousand dragons and whichever Northern castle loses its lord in the battle.”

Bronn sat up straighter, then. “A castle?”

He really was a simpleton. “Yes, a castle. So, do we have an agreement?”

“Aye, we do,” he said, smacking his lips as he stood up. “I’m guessing you want me to leave right away.”

“A smart man,” she said, waiting for him to leave and counting to one hundred before she stood up.

The walk to the throne room was a familiar one, but it had seemed longer in the past months. Those extra steps to the Iron Throne were the heaviest, as she listened to people whisper about her and felt the heat of their stares. She was not the queen they wanted, but they all knew themselves powerless against her. It was a perfectly fine arrangement for her, as it saved her from having to pretend niceties. Once she sat on the damned uncomfortable chair, she nodded to Qyburn, who ordered the guards to allow the captain-general of the Golden Company to enter.

He strode in as if he owned the place, and she fought rolling her eyes. He was handsome, if a little boyish, and with his shining armor she almost let herself miss Jaime. But no. This man was better than her traitor twin. He came with an army. And had both hands. Even as he looked around the room at all the lords and ladies, smirking as though he would be the most important person they’d ever seen. The fool. 

It didn’t matter how overconfident their commander was. As long as he brought his men and elephants, she would welcome him into her home with all the curtesy expected of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. At least he didn’t seem to smell like the Greyjoy moron that slunk behind him.

“Ser Harry Strickland,” she greeted. “It’s good to see you made it to Westeros safely. I trust your sails were smooth.”

“Couldn’t have asked for better winds, Your Grace,” he said, bowing once he reached the foot of her throne. “Thank you for sending your fleet to aid our travels. With their help, I have come with 18,000 infantry, 2,000 cavalry, and two hundred elephants.”

“I would expect nothing less from the Golden Company. You are as legendary as my father claimed,” she said, smirking as she heard the room erupt into awe-filled murmurs. “And tell me, are any of your 20,000 men afraid of dragons?”

“We’ve no fear of anything, Your Grace,” he responded swiftly. “And your Hand has already shown me your Scorpions. Our victory will be swift and final.”

“Good,” Cersei said, letting herself bask in the amazement of the crowd. She didn’t need the people, or anyone in this room to love her. But she was eager to show them that she was even better than her father. That she would protect them so fiercely that any actions they deemed sins would be forgiven. That she was a lion, and it was every lion’s right to be king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to conclude this chapter by promising you that I will not kill Cersei Fucking Lannister with a damned brick... 
> 
> And while I can also promise you that this fan-fiction will be every bit as bloodthirsty and complicated as ASOIAF, I feel the need to warn you that I'm a bit self-indulgent on the romantic front. Trust me, Westeros does its best to ruin happy ending for characters, and it largely succeeds, but there will definitely be more than one happy couple at the end of this. Or at least couples set up so that they can one day be happy.
> 
> Which on that note, some of the relationships have moments that are important in that they are bonding, but not relevant to the plot. Anything related to the story will definitely be included (ex: as you already know this is a Jonsa fic, and their relationship would definitely PO our dragon queen just a wee bit, their developments will be focused on more than others.) for all of the characters. But for anything that is more fluffy/angsty/horny, I will be creating a separate story. Basically a dump of one shots for the couples you become most invested in :)


	5. Bran/Three-Eyed Raven

It was hard watching Theon Greyjoy save his sister. The Raven had looked into the possible futures and had to work through thirteen different possibilities before finding one where the kraken would survive. A happy fool, they had forgotten to account the chance that Cersei Lannister would actually give into bedding Euron Greyjoy so soon. They had missed her conversation with Qyburn regarding the impossibility of his assassination. She would have to marry him, and so he would have to think Jaime Lannister’s son was his. Such a shame, that it wasn’t truly a pregnancy, but an illness. Hadn’t she listened to the witch’s prophecy?

They watched Theon Greyjoy survive to tell his sister that he would return North. It was likely he’d come across the Dornish army, and Elia Dayne's companion had met him before. They would arrive together, so they’d have to warn Sansa Stark against flaunting his love for her. If only his sister was coming, too – but then what better place for the women and children to retreat to than the Iron Islands where the dead could not reach them? No, this _was_ working out for the better, even if they hadn’t planned for it.

It was their only consolation to the matter with Meera Reed. Bran Stark had sent her Greywater Watch to keep her safe, and the Raven hadn’t seen a need to keep her in Winterfell. On his request, Sansa Stark hadn’t sent a raven to House Reed to call them North, but Howland Reed had answered all the same. Begging forgiveness for betraying House Stark when they didn't answer the summons to rise against the Boltons and promising to make amends with three-hundred fresh soldiers. 

They would be useful against the Night King, but detrimental once dawn had come. They had seen Eddard Stark as a young man, and his resemblance to his nephew was uncanny. When Howland Reed saw Jon – saw how the Mad King’s daughter was poison to the North – the consequences could be disastrous.

Samwell Tarly had to tell Jon the truth, and then Bran Stark’ss pack could solve the problem before the poison seeped too deep. Howland Reed hadn’t told his daughter their secret yet, but his face betrayed the desire… Their house would be the last to arrive, so at the very least they had time. The same couldn’t be said about the Night King. 

Jon was at his door, and before he could knock, the Raven called out, “Come in.” Bran Stark enjoyed watching Jon’s eyes widen. He had to find humor somehow. The door creaked open, and he turned to his cousin. Bran Stark would always see Jon as a brother, and he didn’t want to share his pack with Daenerys Stormborn. He wanted to spend time with his family without the Raven.

“We should wait for Arya,” the Raven said, looking out to the window that she would swing from in less than a minute. “Samwell met Daenerys. You should find him later.”

“Alright,” Jon said, Adam’s apple bobbing before he picked up one of the chairs by the hearth. He carried it over to them, propping it up on the other side of the window. They sat together in companionable silence, Jon breaking out into the smile he only wore around Arya Stark when she swung through and landed between them.

“Were you waiting for me?” she asked. At Jon’s nod, her eyes narrowed at her youngest surviving brother. “I’m not sure if I like your third eyes are pointed at me. You’ll see too much… But then maybe you can answer my question. Who’s changed more since we left Winterfell? You, me, or Sansa? It certainly isn’t Jon.”

“You haven’t changed, either,” Jon said to her, shaking his head. Arya Stark’s cheeks blushed, but they weren’t in embarrassment, like Jon likely guessed. She was likely fearful of what her brother would think of her list and her time with the Faceless Men or even her slaughter of the Frey men. The only detail she’d told him was that they’d taught her how to fight properly. “You’ve grown into the woman I knew you would. A true swordsman who can protect herself and her pack.”

“What did you want to speak to me about?” they asked, saving her from any more embarrassingly loving words from Jon.

Arya Stark looked to the floor like she used to do whenever they were caught by Father for sneaking food from the kitchen. “Nothing, it can wait.” She plastered on the fake smile she’d learned becoming No One and hurried over to grab her own chair to place around the window. “Sansa doesn’t like your new queen.”

Bran Stark might've grinned,but Jon scoffed. “If only she was better at not making that quite so obvious. The lords will not accept her until she does.”

“I wonder _why_ Sansa doesn’t like your new queen,” she continued pointedly, studying Jon like a puzzle where the pieces weren’t fitting together. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“They haven’t,” they said.

“Sansa’s under the impression I’m in love and is worried that’ll make me do something stupid,” Jon supplied, scraping his hands over his beard. She was right. People do stupid things when they’re in love. History spoke for itself, but he wasn’t in love yet. His preference for women kissed by fire stood in the way of that. “What was it she said to Tyrion? I think _she_ thinks she’s the cleverest person in the world.”

“She’s the cleverest person I’ve ever met,” Arya Stark said. And she’s known many faces, just like him.

“_You?_ You’re defending her?”

“I’m defending our family.” Yes, she was certainly Arya Stark of Winterfell again. Bran Stark was jealous of her ability to wear her own face again. “She is, too. The Jon I knew would defend his family – his _pack_.”

Jon growled and leapt from his chair, throwing his hands in the air as he marched towards the fireplace. “You don’t understand because you haven’t seen them. Bran, tell her.”

They had met the Night King and his army, had met death himself when his brothers had betrayed him. The man had a more complicated relationship with death than most, save Beric Dondarrion of course. And neither man would wish it on anyone. “We need Rhaegal here for the Long Night for Jon.”

“What?” Jon stuttered.

“The dragons like you. Historically, dragons fight better when there’s a rider,” they said, brushing at the furs on their lap. “Could one of you push me to the courtyard? I have a meeting with an old friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we're finally back to Elia! How do you think she'll fare so far North?


	6. Elia

**ELIA**

Elia hated the North, and they weren’t even there yet. The Stark words had come to pass. Winter had come, and no amount of layers would save her from the cold that nipped at her bones. She was dressed in a thick, white gown that bled into the snow beneath her, and a purple cloak that was too fashionable to do her any real help against winter’s bite. Still, she walked through her camp, head held as high as the Dayne banners, with her hand resting on the pommel of Dawn. It was impossible for her to be wearing her family’s ancestral greatsword without also too wearing a smile, and Ser Harlan had told her it was good for the men’s moral to see their princess in such good spirits.

She was weary of her new queen’s response when she had written her back promising her loyalty, with her last words requesting to be named a lady knight. It was her lord’s only request of her before naming her Sword of the Morning, after she single-handedly defeated each of their champions at their welcoming feast. And with her queen’s happy acceptance, they had finally deemed her fully worthy of the greatsword and title. (Ser Harlan was right; her invitation for their challenge upfront had saved her the headache of them being unexpected.) 

According to legend, the founder of her father’s house – _her_ house – had tracked a falling star to the mouth of Torentine, and their castle Starfall was then constructed where the magical stone from the skies had been discovered. Its blade was as pale as milkglass, and it became the only sword in existence to be crafted of the heart of a star. And now she wore it as her father had before her.

“My lady.” Elia turned to the voice, relaxing when she saw it was Lord Vorian Ladybright. The very first lord’s son who had put a wooden sword in her hand. Whose oldest of younger sisters, Sarella, was still her best friend after nearly two decades of knowing one another (and who would soon be returning from scouting the Twins with Ser Harlan). Who she might’ve married had his lord father not demanded he marry some lord’s daughter from Highgarden. If his late father had not been so quick to give away his son’s hand, mayhaps they would’ve had a chance with her new title.

He had only grown more handsome with age. He stood with wide shoulders and a tall frame, his gold-encrusted armor complimenting his bronze skin in a way that had her blushing like when they were children. “My sister is about to return. She sent someone ahead to request your presence for their arrival. They crossed upon some men from House Greyjoy loyal to our new queen.”

“Ah, so we have some more men to feed. Good,” Elia said, accepting his outstretched arm. “The Starks and the Greyjoys have a history flooded with wars and rebellions, do they not…?”

Elia knew too little of the politics of things. But Vorian was always happy to supply her with his knowledge, often answering her questions before they were even asked.

“The last I heard, the Greyjoy son that had grown up their ward betrayed them and took Winterfell when their last king, Robb, was fighting south against the Lannisters,” he supplied, and she nodded. The Ladybrights had been the first to pledge men to her, and his family’s fidelity came with the gift of he and his sister for counsel. Two people she would trust with anything to teach her the ways of court. “I’m sure things will be tense in Winterfell, but I hear that Queen Daenerys adores his sister, Yara. It will look well for you to ride in together with another one of her allies.”

“So, let’s meet them, then.” Elia nodded to her men as she passed, happy for their warm greetings. Dorne had been a place long since blessed with honoring a woman and her capabilities on the battlefield. Nor did they particularly decry against bastards, except when one tried to claim rights to their oldest houses. She now knew that them not naming her Lady of Starfall had less to do with her gender or bastardy and had more to do with their own greed. Still, she was sure she was not the best choice for the new queen’s cause, but she was thankful all the same. The queen gave her the name, and her people gave her the rest. “I trust you to handle any formalities I might miss.”

“Always, my lady,” he said, tipping his chin to her as they neared the edge of their camp. “And while I have you, I should warn you that my spies within Starfall report that the young Fowler lord isn’t pleased about being moved.”

The second son of the Fowlers had claimed her family’s castle in her absence, and time had not allowed her to visit the castle she had once called home as a young child before traveling North. Ser Harlan had suggested marrying the man, if he was willing to take her house, but if her legacy was to be _hers_, and not her future husband’s, she would have to rule for several years before accepting anybody’s hand. “I don’t suppose we have any unoccupied castles.”

“Only the Water Gardens, but out of respect for House Martell, we should give it to someone who deserves it – not simply because they’re displaced. I would suggest rewarding one of the houses that have pledged men to your royal army.”

“Oh, I forgot about the Water Gardens,” Elia said. Of course, they needed to address the Martell’s death, use it to motivate her people to avenge the fallen house. “If that’s the case, we should wait until after the battle against the dead. See what men fight bravely enough to earn songs.”

“Do you believe the dead army is as great as the bastard Snow claims? That he was so desperate for the queen’s dragons against it, he bent the knee?”

“In a private letter, the queen assured me that she’s not asking for our men to risk their lives and journey north just for the pleasure of our company.” The queen had seen the army with her own eyes and had lost a dragon because of it. Her words betrayed her fear, and Elia was quick to assure her they had already left Dorne with thousands of men ready to fight for the living. If three dragons weren’t enough, they well and truly needed any man or woman the Seven Kingdoms could spare. “We’ll protect the living with our queen, and Dorne will forever be known as one of only three kingdoms who answered her call.”

“Save some glory for our men on the battlefield,” he whispered, smirking at her before the arriving party caught her attention.

Lady Sarella Ladybright led the party alongside Ser Harlan and an Iron Born. Sarella’s prettiness had earned her proposals even before she’d blossomed into womanhood, and Elia was thankful Ser Harlan had been with her. The Iron Born were not known for their civility, and although Sarella was one of the best healers in all the south, she had no skill with a blade.

As the party began to dismount their horses, Elia studied the kraken that had ridden alongside her friend. The leader of the group. He was a lot smaller than she would expect a man that Iron Born stood behind to be, but his eyes were dark in a way only someone who had seen too many of the world’s horrors could be. And although those same eyes sat a little too apart and his smile was faker than Lannister gold, she privately admitted he was also strangely handsome.

“Princess Dayne,” Sarella greeted happily, curtseying before her friend before waving the man forward. “I’d like to introduce Theon of House Greyjoy.”

The one that had last betrayed the Starks. So, their joined arrival would help her win her queen, but worsen her relationship with the wolves. Damned politics never letting anyone fully win. “Lord Theon, I hope my ser and lady have already offered for you to join us in our travels North. We’ve already made camp for the night, and I’m sure we can find room for you and your men. Your sister is not with you?”

“No, she’s sailing to the Iron Islands to reclaim safe land for our queen,” he said, licking his lips as he never quite met her eyes. “The dead can’t swim.”

“So, she sends her eunuch brother in her stead,” Lord Ladybright said from beside her. “And tell me, will Lord Snow even allow you into his castle? After you stole it from his crippled half-brother the last time his family trusted you inside its walls?”

“_Lord Ladybright,_” Elia hissed, dropping his arm so that she could glare at him better. “Theon is a prince and friend of our queen. You will treat him with nothing but respect.”

Vorian was clearly not happy with the order but nodded all the same. “My apologies, Lord Theon. We have been traveling for weeks, and it’s left me too loose with my words.”

“Don’t apologize,” Theon said. His eyebrow twitched as he licked his lips again, and Elia wondered what kind of man he was. He finally matched her gaze dead on, but his Adam’s apple bobbed. “My lady, we would love to travel with you. I’m sure my men would appreciate a good ale, if– if it’s not too much to ask.”

“Of course,” Elia said, motioning towards camp where several of her men watched the exchange. Good, let them see their princess make friend with a prince. Build alliances with the house that controlled the seas. “Lord Ladybright, would you find place for Lord Theon and his men? Give them their own barrel of ale – and Lord Theon. You should join me for supper tonight. I would love to speak of the future between our two houses.”

“It would be an honor, my lady,” Theon said, bowing before Vorian guided him and the rest of the Iron Born through the camp.

Elia stayed still, waiting until it was just her, Ser Harlan, and Sarella. “The Twins?” she prompted, before turning back to the direction of her tent. They slipped to either side of her, trailing behind just closely enough that she could hear their whispers.

“It’s chaos, but not dangerous,” Ser Harlan said. “All of the Frey men are dead; only their women and children survived whatever happened.”

“And what _did_ happen? Queen Daenerys said that none of the Northerners took credit for the deed, but who else could it have been done by?”

“It was definitely done in revenge against the Red Wedding,” Sarella supplied. “The women said they found the late lord’s two eldest sons chopped to bits in the kitchen. When I asked one of them more about it, she said that it was the Rat Cook. That the Rat Cook took the face of Walder Frey, and then a small girl. That she told her to tell the world that ‘winter came for House Frey’.”

“The North have always been superstitious folk,” Ser Harlan said quickly, likely seeing how Elia had paled. “I would’ve said the women were the ones to do it, if they did not look so frightened. They promised us safe passage, though, and only asked that we convey to Queen Daenerys that they bend the knee and want no trouble.”

“Speaking of trouble,” Sarella said, slowing to a stop. Elia followed her line of sight until she found what had drawn her attention. A soldier the size of two men, drinking wine while a woman of the night sat on his lap, had the attention of a small group of her soldiers. His voice was gruff, but pleasant, and she realized he was telling them stories of her father. “I think we have an intruder.”

“What makes you say that?” Elia said, not wanting this man to be anyone but someone who appreciated her father’s heroism. “The men seem to know him.”

“Like him, not know him,” Sarella said, clearly certain in her revelation. Elia watched him as her friend leaned in to whisper, “Look at his uniform. It doesn’t fit him right – much too small. I’ll take a bet, if you’d like. One-hundred dragons.”

“I’ll take that–”

“_My lady,_” someone murmured. Alyse, one of Sarella’s younger sisters, had appeared out of thin air. Too coincidentally, she glanced at the same man Sarella had just accused and then grinned wildly. When Elia looked to her friend in suspicion of her ‘revelation’, though, she only saw genuine surprise and confusion. Until that little smirk she wore every time she was right appeared, and she realized her observation was likely about to be proven true. Elia loved that smirk, when it was directed at _other_ people. “I’ve seen that man before, in the Winter Gardens. He came with _Jaime_ _Lannister_ to try to sneak Myrcella back to King’s Landing. Ser Bronn of the Blackwater.”

“I didn’t taken the bet yet,” Elia said to her best friend before she patted both of the sisters on the back. “I’m glad Dorne is filled with women too smart for those lions. Go, both of you. Arrest him, and find out what his exact intentions were, if you can. Present him to me at supper tonight before Theon Greyjoy. Both he and Queen Daenerys will know it was House Ladybright that brings him to her.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Alyse said, curtseying alongside her sister before both moved towards a group of men with Ladybright’s sigil on their shields.

Elia decided to hide away in her tent. If anyone needed her, they could find her, and she desperately craved the solitude.

Somehow, she wasn’t disturbed until her handmaidens came to set up her dinner with Theon. Always mindful of her mood, they did not talk to her, except to ask if she wanted wine, in addition to the ale they had prepared for the Iron Born. After ensuring they still had enough wine saved for the Winterfell’s feasts, she accepted. She couldn’t afford to drink their gift for the dragon queen, as her kingdom’s wine was a delicacy so far North.

They would move through the Twins by sunrise, and then it was only a week and a half’s ride until they reached Winterfell. Until she met the most powerful people in the Seven Kingdoms, all collected into one castle for her convenience.


	7. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Happy 1 week til Christmas! I want to apologize now for any mistakes... I didn't have time to edit this yet, but still wanted to post for you all.

**JON**

Jon stared at the once golden lion of the Lannisters as the last of the lords filed into the Great Hall. His presence in Winterfell confirmed Sansa’s suspicions. That Cersei had only promised them her army as yet another cruel jest. He wanted to look at the man as an enemy, too, but he couldn’t. Not with the Night King nearly to their gates. Moreover, the man had lost his sword hand, and that seemed like a fate worse than death. He might not be much help in the fight, but a man without his right hand was better than no man at all.

Daenerys’s fingers tapped on the long table in front of them, her fury’s heat sending a sweat down his neck. He imagined it was how he would look if he had ever been cursed to see Joffrey again. The _boy_ who chopped off his father’s head. “When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story about the man who murdered our father. Who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat. Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor.”

Jaime stood tall, despite her words. He didn’t cower, and instead took the time of her speech to study everyone sitting at the front table. Daenerys. Jon. Sansa. Bran.

“He told me other stories as well. About all the things we would do to that man once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him in our grasp,” Daenerys hissed. Jon never liked killing, but there were two men he had told himself stories about, too. Joffrey and Ramsay. They hadn’t been his to kill, but the thoughts of doing so still comforted him. “Your sister pledged to send her army north, but I don’t see an army. I see one man _with one hand_.”

“I thought she understood,” Jon said. He managed to keep his voice even, though his fist shook on his lap. “Do you understand how much was lost to prove to her that their threat was real?”

“She lied to me, too,” Jaime said. His eyes kept flickering to Tyrion, before he dared a step forward. “She never had any intention of sending her army north. She has Euron Greyjoy’s fleet and over twenty-thousand fresh troops. The Golden Company from Essos, bought and paid for. Even if we defeat the dead, she’ll have more than enough to destroy the survivors.”

“What kind of queen sits behind her throne while the dead threaten her people? She knows the threat is real. Jon risked his life to prove it to her,” Sansa growled. Jon stared at her, blinking. Surely, she knew her words pointed out that Daenerys, their queen, was there fighting with and for her people. It was the first help she’d ever offered their new sovereign, and he would’ve smiled if Jaime had come with those twenty-thousand men to help. “She is either a fool or a coward. The North has no need of her, nor of you.”

Tyrion stepped forward, then. “Your Grace,” he said, eyes trained on their silver-haired queen. “I know my brother–”

“Like you knew your sister,” Daenerys said, pushing herself from her seat. “Your words mean nothing. He is _Kingslayer_. He cannot be trusted.”

“You’re right, Your Grace,” Sansa agreed. Daenerys’s eyes widened at his sister’s words, and he cursed. How could they not see it? Jaime Lannister came to them, knowing how he’d be received. Even without a hand, he still had a military leader’s mind. His knowledge would be invaluable in preparation of the upcoming battle. “We can’t trust him. He attacked my father in the streets. He tried to destroy my house and my family, the same as he did yours.”

Jon’s grip tightened around his armrest as the room grew too hot. How had he forgotten? When he was at the Wall wishing more than anything to travel south, Sansa had been in King’s Landing. In the middle of it all.

“I won’t apologize,” Jaime said, earning a scoff from his queen. Only Sansa stayed still, as Jon leaned into her. He recognized that face – she was studying Jaime in a way that reminded him too much of Littlefinger. But her anger was cool, and she was listening. He would have a chance at helping her see they needed him, at the very least. “We were at war. Everything I did, I did for my house and my family. I’d do it all again.”

“The things we do for love,” Bran mused, and even Jon didn’t miss the way the Kingslayer’s face paled. He could understand the feeling – his brother had spent even more time than him beyond the Wall. It had changed him in a way Jon couldn’t even begin to understand.

“If that’s true, why do you abandon your house and family now?” Sansa asked.

“Because, this goes beyond loyalty,” Jaime said, his only hand scraping through his straggly locks as he huffed. Aye, they needed him. This man understood that they couldn’t afford to fight amongst themselves. Not now. “This is about survival, and I intend to keep my oath. I will fight for the living.”

Brienne of Tarth stepped forward then, surprising Jon. He had barely spoken to the women, despite always being in close quarters due to her undying loyalty to both Sansa and Arya. To their mother Catelyn. He’d seen her yell at Jaime in King’s Landing, and Sansa had explained they’d become acquainted when Catelyn sent Brienne with Jamie south in exchange for Sansa and Arya’s lives.

“You don’t know me well, Your Grace, but I know Ser Jaime,” Brienne began, tipping her head in an awkward bow before glancing to Sansa. He looked to her, too, curious what she would think of her protector’s clear plan to vouch for the Kingslayer. His shoulders nearly sagged in relief when he saw that she was already working towards changing her mind. For despite being the color of ice, her eyes were warm as she leaned forward in her chair. “He is a man of honor. I was his captor once. When were taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me. And he lost his hand because of it.”

Jon gaped. He would not have expected the proud lion to do something so noble. Had the years really changed him that much? Brienne gulped, and Jon realized Daenerys was still fuming beside him. The large lady seemed to realize it, too, so turned her attentions completely to Sansa. “Without him, my lady, you would not be alive,” she continued, and Jon’s stomach flipped at her words. They might have Bran and Arya now, but their time as the last two wolves had bonded the pair in a way he couldn’t explain. Without her… “He armed me, armored me, and sent me to find you and Arya, and bring you home because he’d sworn an oath to your mother.”

If Sansa owed Jaime her life, then Jon owed him his, too. For if Sansa had never found him in Castle Black, he would surely be dead already. They all would be.

“You vouch for him?” Sansa asked. She folded her hands as Daenerys jumped away from the table towards the fire. Their queen paced back and forth behind the table when Sansa asked, “You would fight beside him?”

“I do. I would.”

“Then we should let him stay,” Sansa said, and Jon slumped in relief. “But he would be your responsibility.”

Daenerys stopped in her pacing behind Jon, making him sit up straighter. She carefully moved so that she was back in her seat, but her eyes were only trained on him as she tilted her head to the side, what hair was loose from her complicated braids falling over her shoulders. She blinked up at him, her face in a mask more untrained than Sansa’s. He could still see the fire dancing in her eyes, the rage there. “And what does the Warden of the North say about it?”

Sansa shifted behind him, and Jon glanced out to his men. Her use of his new title bounced around the room too loudly, and he hoped his men would stay silent in front of the newest Lannister. “We need every man we can get,” he said.

Daenerys inhaled sharply, and he felt something akin to guilt twist in his throat. Sansa had looked at him like that nearly every meeting he had served as king, always reacting so blatantly to all of his decisions. Always so filled with disappointment. “Very well, then,” she said, folding her hands atop the table finger by finger as she focused back to Jaime. “You will be safe until our battle with the Night King is done. Then, you will stand trial for your crimes against Houses Targaryen and Stark. You should know, ser, that my god does not recognize trial by combat.”

“Your god?” Jaime asked as Jon forced himself not to shudder.

The red witch Daenerys had brought with her from Essos stepped forward. Kinvara. A woman as poisonous as she was beautiful. “The one true god,” she said, breaking away from the crowd like a red shadow. “The Lord of Light.”

Jaime stared at the woman as though he waited for her to crack a joke, before Sansa saved him by clearing her throat. “Brienne, if you could find Ser Jaime chambers. I leave him in your hands,” she said, waving for them to leave. Not for the first time, Jon thanked the gods, old and new, for Sansa Stark. For being willing to listen and not stand stubborn. How different the North’s fate might look if they had been smart enough to follow her, instead of him. “Your Grace, that was the only business Bran called us for. Did you have anything more you’d like to share with your people?”

Daenerys stayed quiet until Brienne and Jaime pushed themselves through the crowd, the room standing still awkwardly until the door closed behind the pair. Finally, their queen stood, holding her arm out for Jon. He jumped to his feet, ready to bring her far away from the lords that watched her with indifference, at best. “None but this. Princess Dayne arrives by the end of the week with her men. They have promised me food enough for feasts every day, should the lords want it, and wine enough for all.”

“I look forward to meeting the new princess of Dorne,” Sansa responded. She stood so that she faced them, curtseying as her title demanded of her, before turning to leave in the door that led to second floor. Jon watched her go as several lords hurry after her in hopes of gaining an audience. 

He had once heard a maid call her the Rose of Winterfell. And a rose she was. Beautiful and covered in thorns sharper than Valyrian steel.

“I was hoping you’d join me. I need to visit my children,” Daenerys said, beaming up at him. At his nod, her smile stretched even more. He guided her to the castle’s exit, until it was her guiding him instead. She held onto his arm tightly the entire walk, only turning away from him to nod to those they walked by.

They had to walk for several minutes outside of Winterfell, to the field where most of the Dothraki claimed shelter in the form of tents. It was at the field’s border that they fed the dragons, a pile of bloody bones taller than him evidence of their meals.

“They’re not eating as much as they should,” Daenerys lamented as they neared the beasts. Drogon turned away from them as they neared, instead focusing on devouring an entire cow. Only Rhaegal purred for his mother, smiling at her with red-blotched teeth before biting again into his goat. “Drogon won’t even hunt – will only eat what they give him. Rhaegal seems content enough for now, but I still worry. I don’t think they like the North very much.”

“They might if they saw their mother did,” Jon said, cautiously reaching out to stroke Rhaegal’s snout. His scales were nearly as cold as ice, but the dragon didn’t seem to mind. He only purred again, shuffling closer to Jon before taking another bite of his food.

“I’m glad to be in your home. To see where you grew up,” Daenerys said, but she was rolling her lips. The way she always did when she knew she had something to say that he wouldn’t like. She spun around to Drogon, petting at his neck as she frowned. “You warned me that the North doesn’t do well with outsiders, and I know there’s not much more I can do until the battle. But I fear even that might not be enough to win their devotion.”

“The Northerners will see you go where the fighting’s thickest. You’ll win them over, still.” Jon had claimed that so much that he wasn’t sure if he said it anymore to convince her or himself.

“I see how they look at your sister,” Daenerys jeered, and Jon’s heart froze in his chest. She was scowling so deeply, and he wracked his brain for words about Sansa that wouldn’t make their queen breath more fire. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t speak ill words against his sister, or her earned devotion from their men. “It’s just as Varys described. She’s their lady. They adore her, and they will not bend the knee – not _truly_ – until she does.”

“She praised your bravery today,” Jon said, stepping forward to grab her by the elbows. She leaned into him, and he realized she mistook his intention. Still, he held her there, her violet eyes still betraying her lingering anger as she moved to hug him. “She’s warming up to you. It’ll just take time.”

“I don’t need her to be my friend,” Daenerys said, humming as she pulled him down for a quick kiss. “But I am her queen.”

“Aye, you are. She knows you are,” Jon said, his arms shaking.

Daenerys pulled him even closer, red lips laying in a soft smile as she blinked up at him. “If she can’t respect me…”

Jon stepped back so quickly she nearly fell. He steadied her, before taking another step back, fists shaking at his side. “If she can’t respect you, what? What would you do to the Lady of Winterfell?” Daenerys’s face reddened as her chest began to rise and fall, matching his ire. She looked back to Drogon, and Jon saw red. “_What would you do?_”

What would she do to the woman who had convinced him to live? To not give up fighting, and wait peacefully for the day he died? To win back his home? Who believed he deserved to be king? _That he was a Stark?_

“I hope we’ll never have to worry about that. I intend for my reign to come with everlasting peace for my people, but I will fight any wars necessary to achieve that,” Daenerys said. And then she turned from him, and he stared at her back as she climbed onto Drogon’s back. “I came to Westeros to be Queen of the _Seven_ Kingdoms. Not even your sister will rob me of my right.”

Before Jon could respond, Drogon flew off and clouds of icy snow hit his cheeks from the force of the dragon’s wings. There came a growl from the treeline, and Jon turned to see Ghost. The direwolf stood hunched as he snarled at the flying dragon. 

Jon moved to pet the beast’s white fur, and Ghost shifted into a howl. He had heard the threat to his pack. Jon’s grip tightened around a clump of knotted fur, as he prepared himself to tell Sansa about the dragon queen’s threat to her. Because it was likely he would not survive the Long Night, but he would rather be resurrected again than let any harm come to Sansa. And she needed any information he could give her in her fight to come.

Rhaegal stared at them, for the first time feeling anything but love towards his mother. It was the first time he had seen her speak a threat to another _dragon_.


	8. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!! I hope you got to spend the day resting with all your loved ones <3

**TYRION**

It wasn’t often that Tyrion was not accompanied by Varys _or_ Ser Barristan, but it was rare for all three men to break fast together. It was the only reason Tyrion knew that the new Dornish princess and Theon Greyjoy were to arrive by midday, for Varys permitted his bird to share the news in front of them. Ser Barristan had been the one to suggest the Dornish bastard for the position – an idea that neither he or Varys had agreed with, but Daenerys had made up her mind the second the ser had said her father had been best friends with Prince Rhaegar. She believed in the bond of their houses, but that was a foolish reason to use in defense of decision when it stood with no other supporting factors.

The Spider’s spy was a young Dornish boy no more than nine, and he pulled at a thick curl as he bounced between his feet. Clearly a lad smart enough to know he was in the company of dangerous men. “There’s one more thing. Lady Dayne s’posedly coming with a gift – a man paid for by the Lannisters to sneak into her army. That’s all I know about ‘im, though.”

“Oh, how fun,” Varys said. He spread far too much honey on his bread as he handed the boy his owed dragons and a piece of candy. “Thank you, my little bird.”

The boy nodded before running out of the chamber, surely disappearing into one of the castle’s many shadows. Tyrion frowned as he watched where the bird had disappeared. “I know we should celebrate. Two-thousand men march north to fight for the living, but I can’t help but worry about the new Lady of Starfall. Her father was killed by the late Lord Stark, and she was raised as a bastard. I doubt she’s prepared for what’s coming.”

“Her mother was no more than a whore,” Varys supplied.

Ser Barristan grumbled, but the Spider only shrugged. The knight was convinced that Ser Arthur would never lie with a whore because he had been a celebrated knight of the Kingsguard. Tyrion knew better. He bit into a grape, a poor filler for wine, and frowned. “How do we know she’s strong enough? Or _good_ enough?”

“We only have to wait a few more hours to find out,” Varys said solemnly. “That boy was the best spider I could find, but he still saw very little. He’s told me more about the people she’s surrounded herself with than the lady herself.”

“At least her father liked the last Lannister _he_ knew,” Tyrion said. Jaime had idolized Ser Arthur, and it was at that man’s suggestion that he had joined the Kingsguard. “I can say that about very few Dornish high-born.”

Their breakfast was only interrupted by one Northern lord asking to speak to Ser Barristan about the upcoming battle. Varys and Tyrion listened closely, enjoying the tidbits of knowledge about the inner workings of the castle. Winterfell was old, and the best of its secrets known only by those of the name Stark. But, the lords still knew more than either advisor, and unsurprisingly neither men enjoyed that position.

As the men stood to find their queen, a knock sounded at the door. Tyrion motioned for both men to sit again before slumping back into his own chair. “Come in,” he said.

All men shot back up when Lady Sansa Stark opened the door. Tyrion smiled at his once wife, motioning to the empty chairs around their round table. “Lady Sansa, come in. How are you this morning?”

“Very well, thank you,” Sansa said, taking the seat closest to Ser Barristan and the warmth of the hearth. She smoothed out her skirts before folding her gloved hands on her lap. “I suspect you know of the Lady Dayne’s imminent arrival. I’ve come to barter information.”

Tyrion grinned as he plopped another grape into his mouth. “Look at you. Apprentice to Cersei, Margery, and Littlefinger… I expect many great things from you, my lady,” he said, wagging his brows at her as her red lips crept into an almost smile. “Your steel has been sharpened, but you have the blood of a wolf. Of honor and goodness. I hope you have not lost that since we last met.”

“I will protect my pack. I will protect my people,” she said. He could hear the distinctive click of her heels underneath the table, and he knew her words to be the truth, if not entirely what he asked. Better than a false promise, he supposed. The North was in good hands, but she could also prove an opponent if she continued to refuse to bend. And he knew she would play a good game, if it came to that. “That’s why I’m here, amongst you gentlemen. I know you care for the people your queen will conquer – for the realm. I want to help, but only if you help me, too.”

Ser Barristan grinned at the girl, and he remembered the man’s affection for both her father and mother. He looked about as proud as Tyrion felt. 

Varys seemed unsure, but his eyes still glittered with curiosity. “The lady is well liked by her people,” the eunuch said finally, smoothing his long sleeves over his lap. “She is often seen amongst them. On her counsel, is Ser Heran–”

“My apologies for interrupting,” Sansa said, thin brow raising as her shoulders squared. “But I have my own spies, Lord Varys. We don’t have to waste any time on common details.”

“Ah, good,” Varys said, shooting Tyrion a meaningful glance. They stared at one another for a few seconds, Tyrion’s answer clear and firm on his face, until finally Varys sighed. “The lady comes bringing a prisoner sent by the Lannisters.”

Sansa grinned, relaxing into her seat as she nodded. “I can’t tell you the number of times I heard the story of our fathers’ duel. Our kingdom’s relations are on the back of Lady Dayne – if she will seek vengeance for her father. I can only hope she is more level-headed,” Sansa said. _More level-headed than _your_ queen,_ her eyes seemed to add. 

“Daenerys’s named her a lady knight, and her people named her the next Sword of the Morning. My spy recognized the sword at her belt as Dawn,” Sansa continued. Tyrion was glad he was sitting, because he might’ve fallen otherwise at the news. The Daynes weren’t like other families with their house’s sword. A knight had to earn the title; it wasn’t just given by birthright. It sitting at their lady’s waist showed just how much her people already stood behind her. Sansa scoffed abruptly, making Tyrion flinch. “A shame, the queen making her the first lady knight. I had hoped to ask that fate for Brienne of Tarth, but then Jon bent the knee before he could name her.”

Tyrion walked to his wine. Forget it still being the morning, he needed a drink if he was to spar with the Lady of Winterfell. He took his time pouring the wine and even longer savoring the taste on his tongue. “I will speak to Her Majesty about naming Brienne lady knight immediately,” he said, allowing himself another sip. “Jaime will be happy to be here for the ceremony, I’m sure.”

“I’d like it to happen before the dead arrive. In case Brienne’s bravery…” Sansa swallowed, and Tyrion nodded in understanding. She didn’t have to say it. The lady then tilted her head to the side, as if listening to something. “Did you hear that? Horns.”

Tyrion closed his eyes as he took a larger swallow of wine, hearing them now that they had been pointed out. “I always hate meeting lords and ladies for the first time,” Tyrion said. He gulped the rest of his wine cup down and wiped at his mouth with his sleeve.

“A good thing you’re Hand of the Queen, then, as she takes back the Seven Kingdoms,” Varys said lightly, earning a glare of Tyrion. He waved to where Ser Barristan already stood, holding open the door. “And we can meet here afterwards, to discuss any changes.”

Ser Barristan shook his head, as if they were fools to worry about someone with Ser Arthur’s blood. He thought the same way as their queen on matters such as this, and Tyrion was thankful for Varys’s vote towards the correct direction of logic. Together, the four of them walked to the Great Hall. 

Tyrion didn’t notice until they were nearly there that he and the others had naturally fallen into line behind Sansa. 

A woman blessed with the charisma of Jaime, but the mind of Cersei. A woman who was once a girl that Tyrion had a soft spot for, as any husband forced to marry a child should have. But she wasn’t a child anymore. She was a woman – a brave and beautiful woman with the bearings of a queen. A potentially very dangerous opponent, indeed.

Tyrion didn’t miss how his queen did not greet the lady of the house as she sat down at the long table, instead only focusing on the man in between them. He would have to talk to her… So poetic, how Jon Snow sat between the two women. Keeping them from ripping off another’s head, while his very existence is only another hit on the hammer to the distaste for one another.

Daenerys was jealous of the North’s love for their red wolf. (And though he would not say it aloud, likely of her mind for politics, too.) It was only made worse with resentment of the love Jon had for Sansa, a love that she still believed to be for a sister. He would think a Targaryen would be quicker at noticing the signs – of when a sibling’s love was just a little more than that – but he was thankful for her ignorance on the matter. He had seen his queen’s vision of her union with Jon Snow. Many others had, too. He had to count on Sansa’s cleverness to either not act, or not get caught. Just as he had laid his faith in Cersei to keep Jaime safe, when he’d been fool enough to chase his love for her.

Tyrion snorted, shaking his head as he took his place standing alongside the wall. Sansa was smarter than any of them, but she only killed for _justice_. He had learned that when Varys’s birds had reported her killing Littlefinger. And when maids had whispered of their lady feeding the Bolton bastard to the same hounds that he’d used to terrorize them. It was a poetic kind of justice, and once more his thoughts slipped to Cersei.

But then the doors opened, and his attention was immediately captured. The Dornish princess was even more beautiful than Varys’s birds had reported. She was both tall and slender, although more toned than he was used to seeing on a woman. She had a thick black mane rounding her petite face completely free from any braids or ties, as the Dorne often wore, and she was dressed in the lilac and white of her house. Her gaze slid to his, and Tyrion’s heart switched placed with his stomach. Her left eye was as pale as ice, and her right a violet as deep as their queen’s. He swayed, before forcing himself to let go of her gaze to study the Iron Born. He looked the same as he had when he’d left the shores of Dragonstone, but also different. A man reborn upon rescuing his sister from his own cowardice.

The lady curtseyed with the grace of a woman born to her title. Tyrion cleared his throat as he remembered it was his turn to speak. “Lady Dayne, I introduce you to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.”

Lady Dayne remained tucked in her courtesy as the bowed man next to her took a step forward. Tyrion stared at the sword on her hilt, the one that Sansa had warned would be there. Dawn. A sword of legend, here to fight for the living. “Queen Daenerys, I introduce to you Elia of House Dayne, Lady of Starfall, Princess of Dorne, and Sword of the Morning.”

Daenerys was happier than he’d seen her in days, and he shared in her relief. Two more allies there to give her the love and adoration she’d been missing since Meereen. He leaned it to express as much to Ser Barristan when he realized the old knight was completely taken by the Dornish princess. But there was something else, too. “What is it?” he whispered instead.

“I would’ve known her to be Ser Arthur’s daughter a mile away. His sister Ashara resurrected,” Ser Barristan whispered. Tyrion had heard the knight mention the name only once, when he had commented on Daenerys’s violet eyes. The Daynes weren’t Valyrian, but they had blood of the First Men. And old blood had purple eyes. “For a moment, I was taken back to a tournament at Harrenhal.”

Lady Ashara. The one who killed herself upon hearing of the ser’s death, Tyrion mentally added. But he and the white knight were already on thin lines, a common product of his family’s crimes. 

And Daenerys still hadn’t forgiven his mistake with Cersei, and Jaime’s presence was only going to press into that wound. He only hoped with Lady Dayne’s arrival and Yara’s freedom, the queen would forgive him soon. She had retreated back into Jorah and Ser Barristan, and Tyrion needed her ear, or he feared where she might blow fire. 

His eyes slipped back to the red wolf. She was studying the new Dornish princess as the new lady stepped forward. 

“Your Grace. I could never thank you enough for giving me the honor of my father’s house. House Dayne will continue to spend its last days how my father did, serving the Seven Kingdoms and House Targaryen.” Ah, a woman who thought of the people… after the queen. “As my first of many thanks, I have a gift to present you.”

Tyrion leaned forward, following where the Dornish princess waved to, until he found the last person he expected to see. 

“Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” Lady Dayne continued, accepting the chains that one of her accompanying ladies handed her. Her right hand fell to the pommel of her sword, and she tugged his old friend’s chains sharply. He groaned as he waved at Daenerys sheepishly. “He was found under the disguise of one of my soldiers by House Ladybright. They were able to learn he was hired by House Lannister to sneak into Winterfell and kill your Hand and his brother, should they survive our fight against the dead.”

Daenerys snarled, and Tyrion could only blink. His friend was a greedy bastard. It’s why he liked him, but he had also thought them friends. Bronn was bouncing between his toes and heels, eyes glancing back to the lady that had handed the princess his chains. He was either nervous or drunk, or both.

“Your Majesty,” Tyrion said before he could stop himself. He hesitated a moment at her violent irritation but pressed forward. Jon had mentioned they’d need men specialized in stealth to attack the Night King’s commanders. Killing one of them didn’t kill the entire army like killing the king did, but it still killed anyone that they had risen. “I cannot stand here and tell you that Bronn is a man of honor, but he is a man of reason. He would be an asset in the battle to come, especially when he knows his only other choice is death.”

“Yes, he is a reasonable man,” Lady Dayne said, smirking at Tyrion as she took another step forward. “He’s fought against our queen before, when she beat your brother in battle. He’s not overly fond of Cersei and says he finds his loyalties amendable.”

“And why should we trust a man with so little honor?” Daenerys pressed. Tyrion looked to Jon, silently conveying his pleas. “If I thought Jaime would slit my throat, I _know_ this man would.”

“Your Grace, I will slit his throat himself myself, should you command it,” Lady Dayne said. Were her choice of words intentional? For nearly every northern lord sat a little taller, and Tyrion knew that unless the lady were to disrespect a Stark, she was safe in Winterfell. Her words were too like Jon and their ways, but still praised the queen. Whoever passes the sentence swings the sword. Tyrion almost allowed himself to hope she’d be a good, loyal bannerman. “But I heard the truth in your letters. We need every man, if we are to win this battle. I’ll provide men to watch him at all hours, for your protection.”

Daenerys’s smile froze, and Tyrion stepped in between them. “We can have his trial the same day as Jaime’s,” he said, nearly stumbling over his words. His friend had agreed to kill him for a job, but Tyrion hoped he would’ve given Tyrion a chance to counter-barter for his life before he did the deed. “Ser Bronn has several vices, but also the sense that he can enjoy none of them if he is dead. Please, give him his chance to show his worth during the battle.”

Sansa leaned forward, finger tapping her goblet. “He will not be free to roam Winterfell without Stark guards watching his every move, but a man who works in the shadows is not bad to have during the Long Night. I also suggest we utilize your men who found him for that same purpose, too.”

“House Ladybright,” Lady Elia said again. Something in Tyrion’s chest warmed. She had passed off the praise to her bannermen, even before Lady Sansa had prompted her. A woman who understood how respect was earned, both humbling and elevating herself at once. The princess waved forward the lord who had introduced her and the lady who was once more holding Bronn’s chains. “The Dornish thrive best in summer, Your Grace, but my house is a people of the stars as much as the sun. You will not regret resurrecting House Dayne.”

“Fallen and reborn,” Ser Barristan murmured. The Dayne’s words, a truth tenfold as their lady earned more of the North’s respect in a single meeting than their queen had all their weeks in the castle. It had been decades since Tyrion had seen the lilac and white banners, the crossing of a sword and a fallen star, but he knew they would once more be flags to be feared and respected in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Your father would be proud of you,” Daenerys said sweetly, before waving Theon forward. “Theon, how are you? Where is your sister?”

“She has reclaimed the Iron Islands in your name, Your Grace,” he said, smart enough to bow before he stepped forward. But then his eyes turned towards Lady Stark, and Tyrion wanted to punch him. _The idiot._ He had only seen that look worn by one man: Jorah when regarding Daenerys. Even a sworn ally to the queen, Theon bled of loyalty to the red wolf. “I have come to beg forgiveness. I betrayed your trust, my lady and lord, and I betrayed the North. Let me make it up to you now and help you defend Winterfell. To defend our _home_.”

Sansa beamed, grabbing her half-brother’s arm tightly as she urged him to accept. Jon looked reluctantly between the two before he sighed. Theon had clearly done something for the lady that had earned him back her trust, and Tyrion remembered how readily Daenerys had welcomed Jorah back after he’d returned healed. What shocked him more was the way the Northern lords looked at the Iron Born with acceptance, too. He had heard that Theon was a hostage to Ramsay Bolton from Varys, but there had been nothing else until he had arrived with his sister in Meereen. A missing hole in their history he would have to learn.

“You bled with the North when it was lost to the Starks,” Jon said, taking a deep breath. “You are welcome here, Greyjoy. Now and always.”

Daenerys stood up, her chair screeching against the stone floor. “Lady Dayne, I’d like to introduce you to my Hand and the man you saved, Tyrion Lannister. Tyrion, please find our new guests suitable chambers.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, happy to leave the hall and its heat. He held his hand towards the door that Tyrion _thought_ led in the direction of the guest hall, but instead they found stairs leading up the castle’s walls. He hesitated, clearing his throat in embarrassment before Lady Arya suddenly appeared at his side. 

The Stark he knew least about, or anything about really. Only that she had disappeared the day of her father’s imprisonment, and then suddenly returned to Winterfell a few weeks before their arrival. That was a rather large lacking of information.

“Lady Sansa has prepared chambers close to the queen’s own for Lady Dayne, and Theon’s to have his old room,” Arya said. She smiled tightly as she bowed to the Dornish princess in a way more gentleman than lady. “I’m Arya Stark. I can show you the way, if you’d like.”

Tyrion smiled gratefully at the girl’s offer, allowing her to take the lead. He couldn’t let them leave him behind, though. It was important to know where everybody slept, so he knew where he had the highest chance to ‘stumble’ upon them whenever he needed information. 

“They called you Sword of the Morning,” Arya continued, an excited hop in her step Tyrion hadn’t seen since their arrival. Even the soft grin was leagues more than any emotion other than her cool rage she always exuded towards anyone but Northmen. “I sometimes spar with Brienne, the large blonde woman you might’ve seen standing behind my sister. I’ve only had her, the Hound, and sometimes my brother to spar with until you arrived. You should join us tomorrow at dawn in the Courtyard.”

Ah, another fighter, then. Tyrion didn’t mind being surrounded by so many women who knew how to fight with swords, as well as words. In fact, he found it only made the Lady of Starfall dangerous in that it excited him about her. The realm was lucky, that their only woman more beautiful than the queen had bent the knee so willingly.

Catching himself in too high of praises, Tyrion tried to reign back in the thoughts whacking against his skull and ribcage. He had thought Daenerys could string the stars in the skies on her dragons, until they had reached Westeros. Until he had seen how quickly she breathed fire when the people weren’t rushing to write songs about her.

“My advisors warned me that women warriors were not so common outside of Dorne,” Elia said. They had entered a part of the castle heated by the underground hot spring – rather than the guest house as he had expected – and Tyrion was thankful for the warmth against his chilled bones. He had been blessed with chambers also warmed by the earth’s natural heat, but he rarely spent his time there. There was just too much to do, and it wasn’t as though he would actually sleep. “I’m glad to see they were wrong.”

Arya stopped in front of a door, motioning to it with her chin. “Theon,” she said simply.

The boy sputtered, scratching the back of his neck, “It’s– ah, it’s good to see you, Arya. I’m glad they were wrong about – ah, about you being dead, and I’m– I’m sorry. I’m sorry for betraying you and–”

“You know why you’re alive,” Arya said coolly, successfully peaking Tyrion’s interest further. What had the kraken done? “Don’t betray the pack again, and you’ll be safe from me.”

“Never,” Theon said determinedly, before bowing to her and the princess and slipping into the room.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a man more afraid,” Elia said as her enchanting gaze snapped to Tyrion. Her lords and ladies nodded in agreement behind her.

“That’s the only time someone can be brave,” Arya said as she persisted down the hall. She glanced back at Tyrion, folding her hands behind her back as she took the half-stairs to the quarter where all the high-born ladies slept, save the lady of the house herself. She stopped outside a door, face falling into a mask so blank Tyrion blinked. Sansa wasn’t the only Stark who knew how to hide herself, it seemed. “Sansa says you share blood of the First Men, like the Starks.”

“Yes, it’s that same blood that my mother says gave your father the power to slay my own.” Elia had said so casually, it took a few seconds for Tyrion to realize what she’d said. He grimaced when the lady looked at him with amused eyes. “Don’t worry, Lord Tyrion. There’s no ill well. Lord Eddard was honorable and returned Dawn to its rightful place in Starfall before riding back to Winterfell. They were just two men caught on the opposite sides of a war. I cannot hate Lord Eddard for being the better swordsman.”

The two women shared a look that Tyrion recognized as mutual respect. He would have to keep a close eye on the both of them. If he was lucky, he’d get to watch them spar in the morning. It should be easy enough to convince Jaime to join him, with the promise of Lady Brienne there too. He had never thought the youngest Stark daughter as his ‘in’ to Sansa before, but Elia seemed to bond with her easily. He only had to approach the princess about Arya Stark as the Hand of the Queen, and he was sure she would listen to him. Help him against the red wolf.

Lady Dayne was surprisingly proving to be an excellent choice for Princess of Dorne, and he only hoped she continued to prove herself worthy of the position. And stopped peeking at him with a look that held a little too much mischief, sparking an excitement in him he had shoved down and sealed shut years ago.


	9. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just when you thought I was gone! I am so sorry for my lack of updates... I'll try to keep my pity party short but basically, I recently learned that something I was diagnosed with four years ago was MISdiagnosed, and so have been going through my correct treatment. I'm fine, but it's taken a lot out of me. That's not even counting how I've started a new job and am preparing for a move... I hope to update more frequently, but I can't promise you all it'll be consistent. But I can promise you I'll try my damned best!

**SANSA**

“Between the fruits and grains from Dorne, and the bushels being sent up from the Twins, our storage is safe for an additional three months, my lady. And that’s accounting for our guests staying for another fortnight,” Maester Wolkan said. Sansa’s finger tapped against Jon’s arm as the trio walked on. 

So, she had been right; the survivors of the Rat Cook – of her sister – saw the value in giving their food in exchange for the North’s devoted protection in the war to come. Now, they could survive a winter over two years long, but the Citadel expected this winter to last longer than any on record. It still wasn’t enough.

“Thank you, Maester,” Sansa said, tipping her head to him in dismissal. Jon was leading her towards the Courtyard, and once the maester left them, she found her step quickening alongside his. And only for slightly different reasons. He had always enjoyed watching their men spar, a symptom from his days with Night’s Watch, but today’s match was particularly interesting, for anyone who cared to realize it. Lady Dayne would be sparring against both Brienne and Arya for the first time, and it wasn’t something Sansa could afford to miss.

They reached the edge of the balcony, and Sansa nearly smiled as she saw the three women talking excitedly. What would their mother say, if she saw how ladies acted in Winterfell now? Would she slap Arya’s wrist and insist she flee to the Iron Islands with the rest of the women? Or would she be proud of how willing and able Arya was to protect their pack? 

“Do you remember that first night when I’d asked Arya if she’d ever had to use Needle?” Jon asked. A flash of blonde slivered out of the corner of her eye, and Sansa leaned over the railing to see Tyrion, Jaime and Ser Barristan had taken seats at the edge of the courtyard. Jon’s hand rested on hers that still gripped his arm, stealing her attention back to him. “I feel like such a fool. She’s beaten me nearly as many times as I’ve beaten her.”

“Is that why you’ve refused Lady Elia’s request to duel?” Sansa asked, nudging his shoulders with hers. He knew she saw his perspective. If the lady ended up being anything like her father, it would be a good match. Their people watching the _Warden_ of the North lose to a southerner was not an image any of them needed.

Jon’s arm pulsed under hers as the ladies below them shifted. Arya and Lady Dayne standing across from one another, with Brienne moving to the wall opposite Tyrion. Good, Tyrion couldn’t use the opportunity to try and weasel information out of her lady knight. 

Both women raised their swords, and Jon hummed. “I can’t believe that’s _Dawn_,” he breathed. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, and her ears reddened in response. It was rare to see him excited about anything, so wrapped up was he in the war against the Night King.

She looked back to the Dornish princess. There was still too much Sansa didn’t know about the woman. How blind was her loyalty to the dragon queen? If Sansa and her people persisted the North needed a king, not a warden, how would she respond? How willingly would she kill the people she’s tasked to fight against in the Long Night to come? To demand her men march across the Seven Kingdoms for a second time?

The lady’s famous sword caught the sun, grabbing her back into reality. And she thought for the first time she could understand her sibling’s admiration for the legendary blade. Dawn against Needle. Of course, no one thought to use blunted blades; but these two swords had earned their names. It was too great an opportunity. The two women had been stepping in circles, and Lady Dayne was the first to break.

Sansa thought it looked more like dancing than fighting. They were light on their feet, lunging like snow leopards but spinning like coryphées. One woman would occasionally grunt, but their smiles only grew with each move blocked or dodged. Arya wiped at sweat on her forehead, staring at the moisture on her glove giddily, and both Sansa and Jon stepped forward until their legs pressed against the cold railing.

Arya could beat Brienne. Arya could beat Jon. It changed every match, so Sansa never really knew who was the best, but she had always been grateful that she would never have to know. Their swords would never swing against one another with the intention to kill.

The same could not be said for Lady Dayne.

Ramsay’s smiling face flashed before her, his honey-coated-with-poison voice prickling against her ear. She could even smell the garlic on his breath. The scent made her sway, and she bit down on her lips as her breathing became more shallow.

_In and out. In and out. Ramsay is dead. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you anymore. He will disappear._

She stepped closer to Jon, enjoying the way her body welcomed his heat instead of feeling threatened. How it craved both him and the safety he gave her.

Her sister swung, and the two ladies re-engaged. The difference was so minute that Sansa might’ve missed it had Jon not inhaled sharply. Sansa looked down again, her eyes falling to their entanglement of footsteps in the snow. Lady Dayne had stopped moving, and instead Arya pranced around her, looking for a weakness.

The Dornish princess swiped her blade up Needle before thumping her sister’s wrist with Dawn’s hilt. Arya lunged forward as Lady Dayne twisted away – but only to dodge Arya’s move with her sister’s second, smaller blade. The one that had killed Littlefinger.

“A fallen star against Valyrian steel. This hasn’t happened since our father defeated Ser Arthur at the Tower of Joy,” Jon said.

He was always focused on the wrong thing. Lady Dayne continued her attack, disarming Arya in only five more moves until her sister was on the ground with both hands up, Dawn pointed at her neck. And the idiot was still smiling, too.

Sansa hurried towards the stairs, knowing Jon would catch up. She didn’t slow until she reached the bottom steps, when Tyrion’s curious eyes snapped to her. He was grinning as well, likely coming to the same conclusion about the fight she had. But his champion was on the winning side.

Lady Dayne pulled Arya back to her feet, clapping her on the back. “A Stark, indeed,” she said, scraping her hand through her loose braid. Strands had fallen loose during the battle, and she was covered in a layer of sweat. Tyrion had mentioned how she looked just like her aunt Ashara in one of his attempts to chum her up by mentioning her father – said ‘young lord Ned’ was rumored to have been in love with the woman. 

Her spies reported a hoard of men had already requested the lady’s hand in marriage, but she had refused them all. It seemed the lady thought similar to Jon, one problem at a time. First the war against the Night King, then Cersei, _then_ marriage. It didn’t mean that Sansa couldn’t plant her seeds, but she had to choose her candidate wisely.

Theon was unable to have children, and the lady needed heirs. That already eliminated the queen’s only other existing ally. Highgarden still sat empty with no lord to contend her. There couldn’t be a better time to convince the lady of a marriage to a Northman. Lady Dayne’s beauty and ferocity already made her popular with the lords; they would not be the ones Sansa had to convince.

“A true Sword of the Morning,” Jon said. 

The lady’s eyes widened, before she did a shallow but spirited curtsey. “Thank you, my lord. Your sister is the best fighter I’ve ever gone up against. You should be proud.”

“I am,” Jon said, patting his younger sister’s shoulder warmly. Sansa stayed quiet. She was proud of how small her jealousy at seeing their affection. Soldiers spoke to one another in a way she couldn’t understand, having never been on a battlefield herself. No, she had stayed on the safety of her horse and only watched. Arya might still be his favorite sister, and they might understand one another better than she ever could, but they were a pack. “I’m glad you both have one another, to keep yourselves ready and blades sharp. We’re having a war counsel after supper tonight to go over our plans against the Night King. We could use another warrior’s mind.”

“I’d be honored,” Lady Dayne said. But then she was looking past them, and Sansa cursed. Tyrion and Ser Barristan approached them, and Sansa noticed something rather interesting. Instead of looking to the acclaimed knight, or even Jaime, as Sansa would have expected, the lady instead stayed trained on the dragon queen’s Hand. And it wasn’t out of respect for his title – her eyes were roaming across him as if she were plotting to bring him to bed. “My lords and ser, I hope you enjoyed our show.”

“You father was the greatest knight who ever lived,” Ser Barristan said, adoration obvious on his face. So, the lady had won him over quickly, too. It made sense. The ser was a simple man. An honorable man with a vision of the perfect world, reuniting with the blood of a fallen comrade. “Watching you reminds me of him. I never thought I’d see such skill ever again.”

“Your father was famed even this far North. My father’s respect was not so easily won, but he spoke of Ser Arthur as a true hero,” Sansa said, finally slicing herself their conversation. Arya had told her what’d she’d said upon her arrival about their duel, but she still had to be careful with her words. Not push the princess over the edge, but still express her admiration. The lady’s strange eyes fell on her, and Sansa did her best to summon the warmth of the memory she spoke of. Of her father telling Sansa and Arya about the battle at the Tower of Joy, after Arya begged him for it again after the hundredth time. When they were safe and together, and legends were just stories. “Called him the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms. Said he would have died, if not for a fellow Northman, Howland Reed there to make the odds more even.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I’ve heard so many stories about him from my brother that I feel almost as if I was lucky enough to know the man,” Tyrion said. Sansa’s mouth flickered to a smile as he continued their duel, and he ignored her as he inched another step closer. “Ser Arthur was the one who convinced by brother to don the white cloak.” 

Jaime grinned crookedly – yet another man who adored Ser Arthur. Daenerys’s seemingly random pick was having more advantages than she had expected. Although, advantages that helped _Sansa_ more than Daenerys. The dragon queen had brought herself a powerful ally, but also contest. Lady Dayne was a woman that men would fight wars over. The Dornish were loyal to their lady, not their queen.

The dragon was already ugly with constant jealousy, and watching the princess win more smiles in the North than she could would wedge the distance between the two without Sansa even needing to lift a finger. She still would, of course, because one could never be to safe. 

“He was the best swordsman in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. He could slay five knights with his left hand while taking a piss with the right,” Ser Jaime said.

The lady giggled at his vulgarity, and Tyrion glared at his brother. Men trying to shy away from crudeness in front of a lady, as if they didn’t see the world so plainly right in front of them. “My mother never saw him fight, but I used to hear stories from my aunt Allyria before she died. She said that my grandfather used to throw tournaments for his daughters’ hands, only wanting to give them away to a man that he knew could protect them. My father would enter and win every time, proving no one could protect a Dayne better than a Dayne.”

“Your aunts were lucky to have him, for many a men would’ve sought their hands without him there. Ashara would often call her beauty a curse,” Ser Barristan said.

Her father had told her about the Dayne sisters, too. How the Lady Ashara had married Rhaegar because he was the first man to not fall to his feet at her beauty. How that choice had been the reason for her demise, in the end. It had taught Sansa another valuable lesson – when choosing a husband, pick one that loves her with his entire being. She might never love _him_, but a husband in love and willing to take the name Stark for her would bring the stability the North so desperately needed. 

“The last time I saw them was at the greatest tournament the world has ever seen,” the white-haired ser continued. “Lord Whent’s great tournament, the year of the false spring. Your aunt Ashara was so beautiful that even Northmen trembled. I will always regret not asking her for a dance, then. Lord Snow,” he said then, turning to Jon. Sansa reached for his arm again, and his gloved hand instantly reached up to cover her own. Tyrion watched the movement curiously, in a way that nearly made her let go. “Even your great father was too shy to approach her. Had Brandon not convinced Ashara to dance with him for him, he would’ve stayed hiding in the corner with me.”

Sansa understood the woman already, and it was because of one of the few things she shared with the dragon queen – powerful men only wanting them for their face and name. They had both once been powerless against those who wished to use them, but Daenerys had responded in a way Sansa could never understand. She had _welcomed_ becoming the puppeteer instead of the puppet, enjoyed watching men crumble beneath their love for her.

Sansa was not perfect. She had been no better than Cersei or Petyr during her last conversation with Ramsay. When she killed him with the same beasts he used to terrorize others. When she had relished in fear. In his screams.

“Mayhaps House Dayne will throw the Seven Kingdoms a great victory feast,” Lady Dayne said, turning to both Arya and Brienne as her smile stretched. “Both of you have to attend. The first tournament with lady knights. A celebration for the war won against the dead. Against the usurper who sits on our queen’s throne.”

“What a perfect idea,” Ser Barristan mused.

Sansa stayed quiet as they continued to talk, falling back into the pits of her own mind. Were the lady’s words proof of blinded loyalty, or was the lady just charismatic? 

“But I have Lady Kylis to thank for that,” Lady Dayne said, pulling back her attention. Lady Kylis… Hutter? The Northern house’s yellow flag with a green mammoth’s head flashed into her mind. She could barely contain her grin. “Most of the fur you’ve seen me in has been hers.”

“How do you know Lady Hutter?” Sansa asked, knowing it too good a chance to miss. Tyrion licked his lips. Good, he hadn’t lost all of his cleverness since pledging to the dragon queen.

“We lived under the same roof for several months in Starfall. She was my cousin’s betrothed before he passed away,” Lady Dayne said, shrugging her shoulders as the shiver began to set in. She was currently only dressed in traditional Dornish training garb. Bronze armor covered her from her shoulders to her waist, but otherwise, only leather protected her from winter’s chill. And the sweat would only make it worse.

Her cousin, Lord Edric Dayne, and the great house’s successor after Ser Arthur and Lady Ashara’s death – until he had fallen to some southern sickness. Sansa had spoken to Lady Hutter’s older brother and lord of their house more than to the woman herself, but she liked them both dearly.

House Hutter had pledged nearly one-hundred men to the battle for Winterfell, and they had lost over half to the Bolton’s. A house that had bled for its loyalty to the North. And Lady Kylis had a younger brother, still unwed… Sansa motioned towards the closest door. “You brave the cold well for a southerner, but let us withdraw into the castle’s warmth,” Sansa said, and every man but Jon and Arya sighed in relief at the suggestion. She offered the princess her arm, with Arya and Brienne falling to their opposite sides. She heard Jon starting conversation with the queen’s men and was thankful for his sacrifice, giving her Lady Elia to herself. “And I hope she’s no longer the only Northerner you can call friend.”

“No, your people have been very welcoming, my lady,” Lady Dayne said, shaking out the cold as they walked towards the hot spring-vented halls. “Her house has taken me under their wing and introduced me to many of your lords and ladies. I already find myself having a favorite, save Kylis herself, of course.”

“Lady Mormont,” Arya supplied. Sansa grinned when Lady Dayne nodded. “She’s as strong as any of us. I’ve been training her with the sword, if you’d like to join. Now that people have seen you fight, every kingdom will be begging for you in the training yards.”

Sansa turned over her shoulder to glance to Jon, and he cleared his throat. “If you can be ready at dawn, I can escort you there tomorrow. It would raise my men’s spirits, to see the strength of Dorne,” he said. Sansa looked to him again. “I should’ve found you sooner, to thank you. Two-thousand fresh swords is a welcome sight.”

“And they come with a fierce lady commander,” Tyrion added from behind them.

Lady Dayne rolled her lips before nodding slowly. Yes, planting the seeds would be easy with this one. She reminded Sansa of Ser Jaime Lannister. Charismatic, attractive, and talented with a sword. Most importantly, though, _amendable_. Jon and Arya were the perfect combination. Showing honor and strength, and that House Stark already knew how to stand behind a woman with a sword. One who goes where the fighting is thickest. Not one who hides on the back of her dragons.

They arrived at the castle’s naturally heated quarters, and Bran waited for them near the closest torch. His eyes flickered back to color, coming back from whatever vision or animal he had been visiting. “Sansa, the dragon queen is looking for you. You can find her in her solar.”

Tyrion fidgeted, but Ser Barristan nodded happily. So, this conversation had been discussed. It was one Sansa had waited for – _needed_ to increase her knowledge. To not let herself be outmaneuvered. She heard Jon shuffle behind her, and she look to him as she answered their brother. “I better not leave the queen waiting, then,” she said, before turning back to the Dornish princess. She tipped her chin. “My door is always open, Lady Dayne. I’d love to discuss the future of our two kingdoms. Mayhaps tomorrow, at supper?” 

“Thank you, Lady Stark. I’ll be there,” Lady Dayne said. 

The dragon queen’s counselors swallowed in unison, so that Sansa nearly slipped a chuckle before turning away from them. Daenerys was staying in the guest hall, her room last occupied by King Robert and his whores. Sansa squared both her shoulders and took a deep breath before turning down the right hall.

An Unsullied and Dothraki both stood guard at her door, and they stood up taller as Sansa neared them. She would not shrink beneath them. “I was summoned,” she bit out. _Her_ summoned in _her_ home by some foreign pretender.

The men exchanged a glance before the much smaller Unsullied slipped into the door. The Dothraki man was everything Old Nan’s stories promised, and he snarled at her in a way that reminded her of Ramsay’s hounds. She only raised a brow in response, happy to wait patiently for the Targaryen’s summons.

Finally, the Unsullied exited the room, moving to hold the door for her. Sansa nodded in thanks before strolling between them, the back of her neck prickling as she felt their gaze on her before the door closed shut.

_I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home. And she cannot frighten me._

Daenerys was sitting by the hearth in the large solar, dressed in all-white furs that made her look more ghost than queen. Her hair was twisted into braids too tight and numerous to be comfortable, and she wore more layers than Sansa thought necessary. _Southerners._

“Your Grace,” she said, keeping her true thoughts ever silent as she took another step forward. “You called for me.”

Daenerys nodded, smiling almost sweetly. She waved to the chair across from her without ever looking away from the fire. “Please, sit, Lady Stark.”

Sansa sat in the chair, brushing her skirts down until the draped in front of her in a perfect half-circle. It wasn’t until she stilled that Daenerys looked to her. The flames lit up her violet eyes in a way that sent sweat dropping down Sansa’s back.

_Aerys was generous, ambitious and wise at the beginning of his reign. He was respected by both lords and commanders. His reign was peaceful and prosperous, until it wasn’t_, Bran had told her. It had been a clear enough warning, and Jon had listened closely. Had promised to keep the realm safe from her fire when he was in her consort after they were wed. 

“My advisors pointed out to me that I haven’t had the opportunity to speak to you alone. The North is a strong kingdom, nearly as strong as its lady. It’s not only your counsel I seek, but your friendship,” she said, the words nearly as pretty as her false smile. “Jon has spoken so highly of the Lady of Winterfell since the day we met, but he also warned me that, like your people, your trust will have to be earned. I had thought we almost made progress. You and I were on the verge of agreement about Ser Jaime.”

“I thought him a threat to my people,” Sansa said. She leaned away from the fire, its warmth too much with her thick dress and cloak. “But Brienne has been loyal to me, always. I trust her more than anyone. If she would march to battle without fear of him stabbing her in the back, we can trust him.”

It was not Brienne’s assessment of him that made her trust the one-handed knight. She was a woman clear in love, and Sansa knew better than anyone how blind love could make a person. But the story about him jumping into the pit with a bear to save her… he was either honorable or in love. Either way, he had come to the North. He would not harm a Stark. Not while Brienne’s sword was pledged to them. And she had seen herself how valuable his insights in the battle planning were. 

“I wish I could have that kind of faith in my advisors,” Daenerys mused. Sansa did not miss the anger laced through the words, and her heart twisted for Tyrion. He was nothing like Joffrey, or Ramsay, or Littlefinger. He had treated her kindly. He was a good man. “Tyrion is too attached to his sister. It clouds his judgement.”

Sansa clicked her tongue. She would throw bait, if only for Tyrion’s sake. “Tyrion is the best of them. He protected me in King’s Landing, both from his own family and others who might’ve harmed me. But he was also the reason the Lannisters won against Stannis Baratheon’s men. And he was the one who thought to trade Jaime Lannister for me and Arya to my mother instead of my brother. You couldn’t have chosen a better Hand.”

If anyone but a Stark could rule Winterfell – the North – Daenerys might even make an adequate choice. Certainly better than Cersei or any of her bastard children. But there were four Starks still breathing, so no matter how much the dragon breathed fire and barked about birthright, she would never be higher than _fifth_ in line.

“He is a good man, the smartest I’ve ever met,” Daenerys relented. “If the usurper wasn’t his sister, I would have no doubts that he’d be the best man for the position. But he’s made so many mistakes since we reached Westeros. I chose him because he is good, intelligent, and _ruthless_. I fear he cannot be those things against his own sister. He should’ve never trusted Cersei.”

“You should never have, either,” Sansa said before she could bite her tongue.

The dragon’s eyes flashed, and her grin stretched until both rows of pearly white teeth showed. “I thought he knew his sister,” she said between clenched teeth.

“He does. Families are complicated,” Sansa said. Jon’s face flashed to her eyes, and she leaned back. No, she couldn’t afford to show her claws on _that_ matter. Not yet. Not before the Long Night. So, she could do nothing more but relent from howling.

“A sad thing we share in common,” Daenerys said. She reached over so that her gloved hands rested on Sansa’s, and it took everything to sit still under her stare. The woman thought they were truly making progress – that Sansa had not already gone over this conversation in her mind. How much she would give, where she would stand firm. She had a hundred times for Jon’s sake, trying to decide her long game’s strategy. But she couldn’t settle for an ending scenario where they relied on a monarch that was not named Stark. That didn’t mean she didn’t know how to play the short game, too. To give the dragon what she needed to hear. “You and I have things in common, too. We both know what it means to lead people who aren’t so inclined to accept a woman’s rule. And we’ve both done a damn good job of it, from what I can tell.”

Sansa let herself smile, then. She would never not be proud of what she’d done for the North. Freed it from the Boltons. Freed it from anyone who would not put them first.

Daenerys mistook her grin, and her mitted hand turned Sansa’s until they were tight in one another’s grip. “And yet, I can’t help but feel we’re at odds with one another. Why is that?” the Targaryen persisted. Her smile was all predator as she inched closer still, edging to the far edge of her seat. “Your brother.”

It was a hiss, and an accusation Sansa was prepared for. They had him in common, too. The fear that they would lose Jon to the other woman. Daenerys’s fingers dug into her through their gloves, warning her of the queen’s unpredictability on the matter.

For she knew the dragon was ignorant of Sansa’s inner wicked desires. Only Tyrion’s gaze had made her nervous. As a brother to incestuous twins, she had known he would be the first of any to notice – but if anyone would have to figure it out, she was glad it was Tyrion. They both knew it could mean nothing, if they let it. Jon was too noble and honorable – too good – to feel in such a twisted way. He was better than the Targaryens and Lannisters. Than _her_. He would never have those types of feelings for his _half-sister_.

Their second shield was Sansa herself. She might not have worn as many faces as her sister, but Sansa was still skilled in donning masks. She could hide her feelings so well that only a man as clever and acutely experienced in the matter as Tyrion could see through her… at least, so far.

The dragon queen was undeniably a woman in love, and people did stupid things when they’re in love. Daenerys was still a new player. She did not yet know love was a weakness, and Daenerys was screaming hers at the top of her lungs.

“I see how he loves you,” Sansa said finally, careful not to react to Daenerys’s obvious thrill at her words. No, she would not survive King’s Landing. And Sansa didn’t want to provide her with any _lessons_ more than necessary before they could address the North’s wrongly bent knee. “Men do stupid things for women. They’re easily manipulated.”

Daenerys grabbed her with her other hand, leaning forward as if she had an excellent secret to share. “All my life, I’ve known only one goal: the Iron Throne. Taking it back from the people who destroyed my family and almost destroyed yours. My war was with against them until I met your brother,” she said, voice full of dreamy breath. Sansa’s stomach burned in her gut, white dots flashing across her vision. “Now I’m here, half a world away from my throne and fighting Jon’s war alongside him. Tell me, who manipulated whom?”

Sansa chewed on her tongue. There was no sign that this love act was anything less than the truth. Daenerys was using her truth of love to tell her lies. Lies that she wasn’t a threat to Jon or the North. Still, Sansa had to choose her battles. A small victory to trick her into thinking she would always win. Give her just a taste of the North’s love she so desperately craved, but not enough to quench her thirst.

“I should have thanked you the moment you arrived,” she said with an almost grin she’d learned from Jon. “That was a mistake.”

“I’m here because I love your brother, I admit, but I’m also here because I trust him,” Daenerys continued. Sansa bit the inside of her cheek. She couldn’t afford to let her tongue work quicker than her brain. “He’s only the second man in my life I can say that about. The last kept his promise to me. He promised me the seven kingdoms, and he’s still fulfilling his promise after death. One-hundred-thousand blood of his blood ride for me in my cavalry.”

Jon had told her how his queen had married a khal in her brother’s attempt to secure a Dothraki tribe. Daenerys had been more ambitious than him and reunited all of the Dothraki tribes to her cause. 

What had Ser Barristan said? _It was the first time I knew Rhaegar was not the last dragon. She killed all of the khals by fire. Fire and blood. The only way you can become a khal – a khaleesi. In one swoop, she had won one-hundred-thousand men’s undying loyalty._

“Jon told me you were a widow, but he didn’t mention there was love,” Sansa pondered aloud as the white spots returned. _He must’ve been jealous_, Sansa could practically hear Daenery’s eyes tell her. But Sansa couldn’t steal back the victory. She had to play the game to win. “Fire and blood. Winter is coming. Our families chose their words well.”

“What better two houses to face the Long Night together,” Daenerys said, nodding as she finally let go of Sansa’s hands. She curled into her seat, stretching her legs further towards the fire. “I’m glad we had this talk, Lady Sansa. The North are lucky to have the Starks. I hope to bring such prosperity to the Seven Kingdoms once the Iron Throne is mine.”

Sansa took the dismissal happily, folding her gloved hands before her as she stood from her chair. “I look forward to hearing the songs,” she said as she curtseyed, the almost truth coming easily. Songs and battles used to be synonyms to her. Until Joffrey cut off her father’s head, and the jester performed his new song the following day at court. She’d flinched at most of the world’s new songs since then, as several celebrated each of her own family’s deaths. 

It hadn’t been until a jest had approached Jon after the Battle for Winterfell with his new song, _The King of Wolves,_ that she looked forward to new songs again. When she had heard a beautiful melody about a red and a white wolf that together saved the North.


	10. Cersei

If Qyburn hadn’t knocked on her door five minutes ago, Cersei might’ve killed Euron Greyjoy. He had not only lost his niece, but the Iron Islands as well. When her Hand entered the room, he smiled in a way that promised a better mood, and Cersei turned away from both men. “You can’t leave King’s Landing. That’s just what she wants. For us to risk more men and force us into the offensive,” Cersei said, pacing back and forth.

“We have only just manufactured enough Scorpions to defend the city,” Qyburn said, the words allowing her to breathe a little easier. “We can’t spare any for your fleet, and the Iron Islands are too far north. The dragon queen could fly to you, burn you all, and return to Winterfell before the Night King arrives.”

“You want me to just sit here while–”

Cersei slammed her fist against the table, and luckily the oaf was prudent enough to shut up. He had a look of determination, though – a stubbornness that reminded her men too proud to listen. Too angry. She would have to give him something, and she knew just what would reel the fish back in. The thought nearly made her throw up. “Don’t worry, Euron. Even when you fail, your queen doesn’t. Together, we will show your kingdom all e can offer them,” Cersei said, rubbing at the beginnings of her swollen belly. It was still easy enough to hide under a corset, but she had undoubtedly begun to grow. “I’m with child.”

“Fuck,” Euron moaned like a man in the middle of sex. Cersei’s fingernails dug into her palms as he stepped forward, one hand to her belly and the other to her ass. He leaned in until she felt the grunge of his breath on her neck. “I told you I would put my baby inside you.”

“An excellent beginning to your union, promising the people stability of the crown,” Qyburn said, stepping forward more into her room. “The wedding needs to happen quickly, so the child is born a prince, not a bastard.”

“Within the fortnight, then,” Cersei said, nails digging even deeper at his choice of words. He should know better. He knew the truths of her children, and they had never been bastards. Myrcella and Tommen. They were good. Cersei shook the thought from her head and forced her attention back to her Hand. “And what of your experiments?”

Qyburn had kept the arm of the dead man – the wight, Jon Snow called it. He had already conquered near-death, and the new army had pushed his dreams even farther. He had promised her an invincible army, to never know the limitations of death. She had seen how strong his methods had made the Mountain; he was to experiment to his black heart’s content.

“No progress, yet,” he said. “But I’m confident I’ll find results soon.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed, as she recognized the look in his eyes as shame. “What is it? What happened?”

“The Dornish bastard Queen Daenerys legitimized,” he began slowly, spiny fingers twisting in front of him. Oh yes, the one who’d marched two-thousand men North. With any luck, the lady would fall to the dead. “She gave food to the Frey survivors. The Twins are pledged to the dragon queen.”

Cersei swallowed, careful to not betray her fury. Euron would never see her weak. Nobody would see her anything but a sure queen. She almost wished Ellaria was still alive so she could visit her, remind herself what happened to the last Dornish whore that challenged her.

“Then they will die,” Cersei said simply. She fled to her balcony, gaze instantly falling again to where the Sept of Baelor used to stand. She killed the High Sparrow, and she killed that cunt Margery, too. The dragon queen would be no different, no matter how many allies she won. Cersei was not going to let anyone take that damned chair from her. She had paid far too high a price far too many times to give it up now.


	11. Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for a quick note... I'm having Winterfell closer to the books. It is WAY bigger and an actual stronghold. My knowledge on it still limited, though, so if you notice any inaccuracies please let me know so I can fix it!
> 
> Also, I hope everyone is being safe and staying healthy in this difficult time! Luckily, my work lets me work remotely so I'm blessed with not having my paychecks disrupted, and I hope it's the same for all of you!

**BRIENNE**

The Princess of Dorne was less skilled with dragonglass, and that only made the point of her blade in the sliver of skin between her armor that much sharper. Multiple lords clapped politely as Lady Elia adjusted her stance to offer Brienne a hand.

“Good fight,” Lady Elia said when Brienne ignored it. She was covered in sweat, and Brienne was pleased the Dornish knight was at least so breathless. But it still wasn’t enough. Their fifth duel with the new material, and the third that the princess had won. She could only ever beat her when she wasn’t fighting with Dawn. _And what if Dawn is one day pointed at the Starks?_ “If you have time today, I’d love for you to come to my yards. It’ll do my men good to see we fight with such strong allies.”

“Only if you join us in our yards after,” Arya retorted, coming from the wall with her sister and Lord Torrhen Hutter. The little wolf had won her last duel against the lady, and Brienne was glad for the reminder she was not the Stark’s only protector.

“Of course,” Lady Elia said, sheathing her dragonglass sword on the opposite hip of Dawn.

Brienne was proud of her ladies for securing the princess’s time before Lord Tyrion walked up with his brother. She fell to Lady Sansa’s side, determinedly ignoring the older of the two, and pasting her eyes to the shorter of the two brothers as he tipped his chin to all the ladies. “My ladies, excellent duel. I’m glad you’re all here, saving me hours of getting lost in the castle looking for you all later. Houses Stark and Dorne are both invited by Her Majesty to the knighting of Lady Brienne of Tarth at sundown.”

The world quieted around her as everything moved slower. Sansa spun to her, marching forward to squeeze her hands. Arya was clapping her on the back, and Jaime was beaming at her in a way that robbed her tongue of any words she might say.

“It is well deserved, if half the stories my brother’s told me about you are true,” Tyrion said, tightening the knot in her stomach past uncomfortable.

“I’m glad the queen has seen reason,” Lady Sansa said, squeezing her hands again.

And when Brienne looked at her, she realized she couldn’t let Queen Daenerys to be the one to knight her. Brienne would not kneel before the woman trying to steal the Stark’s home from them. But she would not endanger the Starks by refusing outright, so instead she nodded to the Imp. “Thank you, my lord.”

It was Jon Snow who saved her from saying more. Nearly everyone reacted differently to seeing the once king, and he huffed at their attention. “Lord Hutter, Lady Elia, Lady Brienne, Ser Jaime… you’re all needed in emergency war council meeting right away.”

Arya moped as Sansa held out her arm to her, and Brienne bowed to both of them, knowing them safe in each other’s presences. “I will come find you in the yards as soon as we’re released,” Brienne said.

“And I promise to be with her,” Lady Elia said as she pulled Brienne between her and Jon Snow, leaving space for Lord Hutter at her other side.

Brienne dared not spare a glance at Lady Sansa, for they could not share in her victory before so many. Sansa had discovered the lady’s connection to her loyal bannerman. The lord’s sister was friends with her in their youth, and it had been an easy enough leap to make. Having a Northern lord husband to a southern princess was too valuable an opportunity for once the Night King was dead. Sansa promised the lord Hutter that he had time – the princess would not marry for years yet. Only once the lord had left did Sansa confess she first needed Jon as Daenerys’s king to make the union into reality. It was why the lord was to only romance her in the shadows.

They left the Stark ladies in the Courtyard, passing Ser Clegane on the way. Good, Arya would still get her own training in before going to the yards.

“Are you really going to make us wait to know why we’re being called, Lord Snow?” Lady Elia asked around her, and Brienne mumbled in her agreement. Jon only ever stretched past brooding when he was with his family, but he looked particularly forlorn that morning. “I only had one parent, and she did not know patience herself – leaving her incapable of teaching _me_.”

“It’s House Reed’s idea, not mine,” he said as they walked past a horde of Dothraki men. They eyed her in a way that reminded her too much of Tormund. Already squirming, she nearly swung to punch who’d pulled at her wrist, until she saw it was only Jaime. _Ser_ Jaime. She had to keep their formalities, in case her heart would forget that they still stood on opposing sides. Still, she let herself fall into step beside him behind the lords and lady.

For reasonings unbeknownst to anyone, Bran had requested his sisters to keep House Reed away from Jon Snow. Bran kept the constant company of the lord’s daughter, and the lord himself was often sent on the errands outside of Winterfell. Sansa had told her how he had stayed confined to his castle since King Robert’s rebellion, so everyone had been surprised that he’d answered the call.

They entered a room just large enough to fix the almost dozen of them already standing around the battle plan. Queen Daenerys, Ser Barristan Selmy, the Unsullied Commander, a trio of large Dothraki, a Dornish lord and knight, Tormund and a wilding woman, and nearly half a dozen North lords. For the first time including Lord Reed and his daughter. 

The map of Winterfell took up half of the long mahogany table in the room’s center, with the other half taken over by a map of the entire North. Small statues of different house banners were stationed all around Winterfell, but the second map remained void of any planning. It hadn’t made any sense to leave their castle’s walls – they could not take hundreds of thousands of soldiers in an open battlefield. But it was the second map that everyone was cluttered around.

“Your Grace,” Jon said in greeting before his queen waved her to his side.

“Go on, then, Lord Snow,” Daenerys said. She had always been a short woman, but she looked particularly small next to the men and women of the room. It had taken only one meeting for Brienne to learn that the queen knew nothing of battle. She had only every won through sheer force, never strategy – and without her one advantage, she was clueless. “Speak, so that I can better understand. I was under the impression that we couldn’t take them on in open battle.”

“I’m not changing what I said. We can’t defeat the Night King in a head-on battle, but Lord Reed reminded me that staying in the castle isn’t our only other option,” Jon said, the entire room nodding in confusion to his words as the once king motioned to the man in question. “Go on, then.”

Lord Reed nodded to his daughter, who began placing small wooden markers onto the blank map. They were hastily made but were clearly more house markers. She began to position them in loose lines around the map, causing a murmur as their suggestion began to become clear.

“Skirmish lines,” the lord said simply. The dragon queen blinked, clearly still confused but not wanting to admit it. Lord Reed fidgeted before stepping forward, keeping his voice barely even as he explained slowly, “To harass the enemy. We won’t be able to defeat them out there, but we can chip away at their numbers before they reach the castle. The key is to only engage in sporadic combat – delay their movement and disrupt their attack. Pull them away from each other so that we can get to their commanders easier.”

“I like this much better. You would have to keep the Night King busy, though, Your Grace,” Lady Elia said, both hands resting on her swords’ pommels as she turned to Daenerys. “You could give him pressure. Force him away from his army and leave them to their own devices.”

The Unsullied commander stepped forward, then. He always spoke quietly, but the room knew to listen. It was he that was responsible for the catapults already positioned outside their walls, and who had joined Jon to dig the snow pits spiked with dragonglass. He pushed the marks of cavalry and swords, representing the Dothraki and his own men, towards the river in the woods.

Bran had seen the Night King’s army devour Torrhen’s Square after slaughtering through Moat Cailin (they had feared the army would continue farther south, but they turned north instead of continuing their trek towards the Neck). Any who’d still been in the mountains were now part of his army.

So now they were being attacked from two sides – southwest from the Wolfswood and, of course, north.

It was now the Dornish and Northmen that the Unsullied moved. “I hear praises of Dorne’s bowmanship,” he said in his broken common tongue, the southerner’s nodding in agreement to his praises, “but we need the horses. The Northmen and wildlings know this land the best. They should be the ones to skirmish north.”

“I will remain in Winterfell with House Mormont,” Jon said, moving back the bear’s statue but leaving the rest. Brienne watched him closely as his queen stepped back into his space. How he froze, rather than lean in or away. “With all this movement outside the castle, we’ll need a means of communicating. Our lives depend on it, and Lady Lyanna has promised me her men will not fail us. Each battalion will have their own horn call, and lanterns to communicate movement.”

The horns and lanterns had been Lady Sansa’s idea – Brienne had been her bouncing board to learn about different standard battle communications – long before she had presented it to her half-brother. Even when they’d intended to keep their armies to Winterfell, it had made sense. Been ridiculous that no one else had thought of it.

“They’re still thinking as different armies. Only worried about leading their own men,” Sansa had said. “Jon knows they need to fight together, but he’s never commanded an army this large. The idea will have to come from him, though, if we’re to hope for the dragon queen’s fast acceptance.”

Ser Barristan stepped forward, then. Lady Sansa had spoken to him, too, and it was her words that dripped from his mouth as he bowed politely to his queen. “I have only one suggestion, Your Grace. If you’re to engage the Night King in open skies – they say he brings winter’s storms with him. Drogon is your strongest soldier, but Rhaegar is a close second. And I think he would be better armed to protect you if he had a rider of his own.”

“Are you volunteering?” the queen asked, grinning at her own joke.

“No, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said, risking another step forward. “But when dragons were plenty, they never went into battle without a Targaryen on their backs. You may be the Last Dragon, but Rhaegar has grown fond of Lord Snow.”

Jon looked the appropriate amount of surprised – better practiced as he grew more accustomed to his sister’s plans. Honorable men were notoriously terrible liars, but Sansa had taught Jon – taught Brienne – how lies were easier sold when flavored with the truth. And the truth Jon shared was his fear. “Just because Rhaegar doesn’t burn me alive for touching him doesn’t mean he would let me fly on his back,” he said between gritted teeth. “I couldn’t–”

“You can,” Daenerys said, her smile blindingly bright as she wrapped his bicep between her hands. “We are safer at each other’s sides. Let your people see you fight for me from the skies.”

“I– my place is in Winterfell,” Jon said.

But his lords disagreed. It was Lord Reed who stepped forward first. “Your place is wherever puts you in the best position to defend the North. If that be from a dragon’s back, so be it.”

Then, Lord Hutter patted Jon’s back roughly, as he grinned widely. “You ask us to do the impossible for you. Do the same for us. Show us that wolves can breathe fire, too.”


	12. Missandei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whenever you see words italicized, that means the person is speaking in another language, whether Valyrian or Dothraki.

Missandei dressed herself as Torgo Nudho tightened the last straps of his armor. Winter agreed with neither of them, but it also came with its benefits. Her always stoic lover was happy to fall into bed with her excuse of the need for body heat, and they spent all of their free time under the furs. Sometimes just to talk, and other times a little more…

She turned away as her cheeks warmed in a blush. “_Where are you off to today_?”

“_We’re digging the pits again_,” he said as his hands coiled around her waist. She leaned back into him, enjoying the way his chin nuzzled into the crook of her neck. “_Jon Snow requested me. Said it will be good for his men to see me away from the training yards._”

“_He doesn’t rule, only trains_,” Missandei said, enjoying the comfortability of their Valyerian as he led her into the hallway. It only ever made the Northerners glares harden more, but she cherished the privacy it afforded them in such cold lands. 

Jon Snow’s army has stolen him away from Daenerys. And if he wasn’t with them, he was with one of his sisters.

“_I don’t want to talk about Jon Snow_,” he said. “_I do not like Jon Snow. I do not like the North. When Daenerys takes her throne there will be no place for us here_.”

“_What are you saying? She would never ask us to stay here. She will need us_–”

“_She will not. She will have her iron throne, and no one will be able to take it from her_,” he insisted, stopping them before they were outside and would have to part ways. “_I will fight for her until her enemies are defeated, but when the war is over and she has won… I am loyal to you, Missandei. Is there nothing else you want to do – nothing else you want to see?_”

Missandei wished they hadn’t left their chambers so she could kiss him again. Instead, she squeezed his hand in hers. “_Naath. I’d like to see the beaches again. See if they’re as beautiful as I remember._”

“_Then I will take you there_.”

“Lady Missandei.” They both turned to see Lord Varys, standing with his hands folded as he always did. He had snuck from some shadows somewhere, and she dearly hoped this conversation was short. The only advisor she hated worse was Jorah… a slave trader who had wormed his way into their queen’s heart through absolute and unconditional devotion. “Your presence has been requested, if you’d come with me.”

“I’m not a lady,” Missandei said, edging closer to Torgo Nudho.

“And I’m not a lord,” he said, shrugging as he grimaced at her lover. “But as the queen’s most trusted friend, you should become used to the title.”

Torgo Nudho bowed to both of them, shooting her a meaningful look before disappearing out the door. Lord Varys did not hold his arm out to her as most men did, instead keeping his hands firmly clasped together as he turned in the direction of the queen’s chambers.

“Lady Elia is waiting for us. She tells me you joined her in Winter Town,” Lord Varys said. If anyone else had said it, she would’ve thought it small talk. But she had learned better in their time in Dragonstone. The man was a fisher, and his prize information.

The Northmen had still been wary of her, but noticeably kinder in the presence of the Dornish princess. She had yet to know what to make of the lady. She had brought two-thousand men for the queen and was always kind to everyone. It was amazing to watch her make nearly everyone she came across with fall over themselves to impress her. It reminded her of Queen Daenerys, back before they had come to the cruel lands of Westeros. The thought should make her like her instantly – and she did, except when she saw the looks her queen gave the woman. Her queen was too vulnerable right now, trying to save people who only saw her as a ‘foreign whore’. Their love of the southern lady only crushed her spirits more, and it pained Missandei to see her queen in such distress.

“I did. I wanted to see more of the people,” Missandei said.

Varys opened his mouth to respond, but then his eyes flicked to the side. He eyed a servant girl passing them with a small smile on her face, before he turned to look behind her. Missandei followed his gaze to the Lady of Winterfell herself.

“Missandei, Lord Varys,” the lady greeted, tipping her head. When Daenerys told her of how big Westeros was – that it wasn’t seven kingdoms in name but in actuality. In cultures, land, in everything. She hadn’t known exactly how to think of it, but now she understood. The Lady of the North was as cold as her lands, just as the Lady of Dorne was as warm as hers. “Missandei, I was hoping to find you. Lord Tyrion told me you speak nineteen languages. I’m sure you’re busy servicing the queen, but I was hoping you could teach me some Valyrian and Dothraki if you ever have the time.”

Missandei blinked, not sure she had heard the lady correctly. “Ah, yes,” she said eventually, when she realized she still hadn’t answered. Lord Varys was watching them with a curious expression that sent shivers down her spine. But the lady… confused her. “You want to learn our language?”

“Yes. My house takes guest rights very seriously, especially with what’s happened to us in the past,” Lady Sansa said. She returned Missandei’s gaze, completely ignoring the eunuch beside her. “It is not right of me to not be able to converse with my guests. I’d like to rectify that.”

“How kind of you, my lady,” Varys said, eyes slits as he watched her. “I didn’t think the Lady of Winterfell would take an interest in the language of foreigners.”

“Do not elevate my words to anything more than they are, Lord Varys,” Lady Sansa said. “You are no longer in the south. We are not like Lannisters or Freys who would harm people when we have invited them into our home. You think I choose the ‘kind’ option, when really I choose the _only_ option.”

“And yet you continue to openly defy our queen,” Lord Varys combatted.

“You know with all your little birds every gruesome detail of what my family has been through,” Lady Sansa said, not backing down. And although Missandei knew she should be angered by all of the lady’s slights to her queen, she hesitated. What injustices _had_ the Starks been through? “You should know why we do not welcome a queen based on her _birthright_ alone. When we see she will be a good queen, dealing justice and not just fury, we will warm.”

“She will be a good queen,” Missandei said.

Sansa smiled, just a twitch of her lip to the right before she nodded. “I look forward to it,” she said, before tipping her head. “I hope to see you soon, Lady Missandei. My men know I’ve asked for you, and they will bring you to me at your request. I hope to speak to you soon.”

Then, before she could think of a response, the lady left her alone again with the Spider. She turned to watch her leave, before looking back to Lord Varys, who was already watching her.

“She is a very interesting lady,” Missandei said, following him when he continued to move towards where she assumed Lady Elia was waiting.

“Yes, I’ve known her since she was just a girl. She has been sharpened into Valyrian steel. That much is true,” he said.

“What she said… ‘every gruesome detail’. What was she talking about?” Missandei ventured to asking. She wasn’t entirely sure she could trust his words, but who else could she ask? Possibly Lord Tyrion, but she did not want to push certain boundaries. She could ask Varys now, under pretense of what had just happened, without raising any eyebrows. “I know the kingdoms have been at war for several years, but not much more than that.”

Lord Varys glanced at her, his mouth pressed into a white line. He wasn’t pleased with her question. That, or his answer was already troubling him. “As I said, I’ve known Lady Sansa since she was a little girl. Her family was at war – is still at war – with the only other family in the Seven Kingdoms that could stand against them. The Lannisters made her watch them chop off her father’s head. The Lannisters beat her and humiliated her at court every time her brother won a victory on the battlefield. A vile but cunning man that you are blessed to never having to meet – Littlefinger, people called him – swept her away from the capital, only to sell and wed her off to a greater horror. I’ve only heard rumors about what the Bolton bastard did to her, but if half of them are true, she has gone through tortures of the worst kind.”

Missandei mulled over his words. Why did the lady hate her queen, when they had gone through much of the same? People only wanting them for the power their marriage could offer, for their beauty.

“And what about what she said about the Lannisters and Freys? And inviting them into her home?” Missandei asked. 

The man stopped in front of a door, turning to her with an expression she could only describe as sad. “Her brother made a deal with a man named Walder Frey to marry one of his daughters for safe passage across the Neck – the only passage from the North to the South. He broke that deal, and so the Freys betrayed them. They invited the Starks into their home for another wedding and murdered them all. Her brother’s wife pregnant with a babe. Her father. Her brother. All of them slaughtered in one fell swoop.”

Missandei had no response, for the tale sounded out of a horror story. To kill so many in such a way. It was like nothing she had ever heard of.

“Now then, let us not keep the Princess of Dorne waiting,” Lord Varys said. He knocked thrice before a gentle voice told them to come in. The lord opened the door and ushered him inside.

The lady was sitting by the window, hands raised over a vent from the castle’s underground hot springs. She was dressed in furs, but they were not the blacks and greys that the Northmen wore. Hers was a bright red of a fox or perhaps some other Northern animal. When they entered, she smiled warmly before standing and motioning to the table.

“Thank you for coming,” Lady Elia said as they all sat down. But then she surprised her by turning to Lord Varys. “Well, will you stay silent, my lord? Will you tell us why you gathered us here, or would you prefer us to guess?”

Missandei stayed silent in her confusion. If it was Lord Varys that called them together, why were they meeting in Lady Elia’s solar, and not his? What was his game? She knew him well enough to know there was one but couldn’t for her life figure out what it was.

“You two are the most powerful women in the Seven Kingdoms, second and third to the queen,” he said. She went to correct him, for surely Lady Sansa was leagues above her, but she understood his point. She was Queen Daenerys’s closest friend. “I thought it important to discuss the Seven Kingdom’s future after the fight against the Night King. I have heard many whispers – of what goes on in the South.”

“And why are you not bringing these concerns to the queen?” Lady Elia asked, voicing Missandei’s own question.

Lord Varys smiled tightly. “Our queen is very busy right now trying to win the war against the dead. I know you ladies are, too, but I cannot do this alone.”

“Do what alone? Stop with the pretty words, my lord. Tell us what you want from us.” Yet again, Missandei was thankful that Lady Elia asked the questions she dared not.

“The North and Dorne have already sworn to our queen,” he started, looking between them both, “But that still leaves the Riverlands, the Reach, the Stormlands, the Vale and the Westerlands. And while Jon Snow has bent the knee for the North, their loyalty is still in question. Or shall I say Lady Sansa is still in question, and she has close family ties to two of the other kingdoms.”

“Our queen has two dragons,” Lady Elia said as Missandei stayed quiet as ever.

“Yes, she does,” Lord Varys said, suddenly looking as sad as he had outside the door. “But we must do our best for the realm. We must spare bloodshed wherever we can. We need to win her if we are to keep the peace.”

“She will warm up to the queen once she sees her in battle,” Missandei said, startling them both, having stayed quiet for so long. She was even more sure of the idea since the exchange in the hall. The lady wasn’t cold for the sake of it. She had been nearly the equivalent of a slave, doing and saying what she needed to survive for those that had owned her. Once she saw she the queen was an emancipator, not a master, she would see reason. “And once she sees her as queen – a just ruler only ruthless when she has to be, a liberator – she will bend the knee.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but we cannot afford to rely on assumptions. We must act, if we are to ensure peace for the people,” Lord Varys persisted. “We must win her loyalty. The queen is not the way about it. Lady Sansa no longer wants to be under anyone’s control other than her own.”

With right reason, if what he had said earlier was true.

“From her or us, what does it matter?” Lady Elia asked, pushing herself from her chair to stride about the room. She rested her hand on her sword’s hilt as she paced, much in the same way Missandei had seen soldiers often do when they were nervous. “If she will not bend, she will not bend. No matter who presents her with the notion.”

“Which is why we can’t go about it as bending the knee. We have to present it to her in a different way. What it can do for her. With Jon in King’s Landing with our queen, she will be ruling Winterfell in his stead. It will mean nothing to her, unless she knows she and her people are safe. We will need to name her heir of Winterfell, and her children after her. We will have to remind her that with Jon gone, Winterfell is hers.”

He had a point, she supposed, but he was wrong as well. “She loves her family more than anything,” Missandei said. She folded her hands on her lap, the princess’s paces only quickening with her words. But she knew she was right, and Varys was missing the most important point of all of Lady Stark’s many qualities. “She does not mind handing the power over, if she knows it’s someone she can trust. Why else would she support Jon in his absence when she so clearly disagrees with his decision? We don’t have to appeal to her need for power; we have to appeal to her need for family.”

Lord Varys blinked at her, but Lady Elia nodded along as though she completely agreed with her.

“Yes, exactly. She has to know that Lord Snow marrying the queen isn’t taking him away from her,” the lady said, pouring herself a goblet of wine from a barrel perched on a small table. She offered both of them one as well, but they rejected the offer, so she continued, “She has to know that Lord Snow will be safe in King’s Landing. That her family won’t perish in the south as they’ve done in the past. That he can and will come back to her more than once every few years. That the south won’t change him.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Lord Varys asked.

Lady Elia shrugged in a very unladylike manner, before taking several gulps of her southern wine and joining them back at the table. “I don’t know. You’re the clever one,” she said.

The eunuch did not look happy, looking both confused and considerate. She had never seen the expression on him before. “Very well. We will reconvene when it’s time to put the pieces in motion.”

“Don’t leave us waiting too long,” Lady Elia said. She smiled mischievously then, in a way she only did when thinking or talking about a certain dwarf. “But if you’ll excuse me, you’re not the only important people I have to speak to today.”

Missandei stayed seated for only a moment, contemplating everything she’s learned. The Lady of Winterfell was not cold because she had not heart, but because its softness had been beat against until it turned to steel. She had been in chains, and she had freed herself. She was the mhysa of the North in her own right.

The Seven Kingdoms were filled with people unlike any she other met, and suddenly she regretted her words to Torgo Nudho. She wanted to return to Naath – to home – but there were things she wanted to see first. Cultures. Land. Everything.


	13. Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one week?! Who am I?!

When Tyrion invited him to watch Lady Dayne spar Brienne, Jaime had never been quicker to say yes. His brother grinned at him knowingly, and Jaime was thankful for the beard to hide his blush. (Gods, was he a maiden again? What was it about that woman?) He had missed his brother, but not his too-sharp eyes. But, he wasn’t the only guilty party. It was likely nobody else noticed, but the two were brothers, and Jaime knew his brother better than the back of his one hand.

“You’re taking a great interest in the princess,” Jaime mused, smirking down at him as they reached the edge of the courtyard. The women were stretching, and both men hurried down the stairs. They both needed to be closer for what they wanted. “I know why I am. Her father was my hero in every sense of the word, but you–”

“Are Hand of the Queen,” Tyrion finished. His lips barely moved as he slowed his pace, in that way he did when he did not want others to read his lips. “And I’m responsible for ensuring that she keeps healthy relationships with the Seven Kingdom’s most powerful lords and ladies.”

“You sound a bit too rehearsed,” Jaime said as they took their spots alongside the wall. Neither brave enough to greet the group yet, but happy enough to join the usual number of spectators enjoy the show. Brienne had weaseled her way out of being knighted, insisting it was by a Stark or no one, but it had made her fights no less desirable for people to watch. He took his time looking around at all the lords and ladies, stopping when he found Jon Snow and Sansa Stark standing on the balcony. A pull to a past that seemed a lifetime ago, the utter image of a young Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully. “When we first met _Lady_ Sansa and _Lord_ Snow, I thought they’d be the first two to die. But look at them now.”

“I thought so, too,” Tyrion lamented. Jaime did not miss the way his gaze was latched on to Lady Dayne. “I thought her heart too gentle and his too broken. It must be true what they say about old blood. It refuses to die no matter how hard the world tries. Look at our queen, the Starks, the Daynes.”

_Your queen,_ Jaime thought. But there were too many possible eavesdroppers to voice his protest. Instead, he joined the men in gawking at the women warriors, huffing when Brienne avoided his gaze yet again. They had barely spoken. Sansa and Tyrion had steadily spent more and more time together, so they had spent time together, sure. But never just the two of them. He didn’t want to think of how deeply his disappointment twisted.

She no longer wore the armor he had given her. It was clear Lady Stark had ordered a custom suit for the woman, and she looked like a true Northerner. Stark silver replaced his Lannister gold, with furs stitched to the metal to keep her warm, even in battle. She had become even more beautiful since they had reunited in King’s Landing, and it was easy to see why when she was surrounded by such recognition. It was clear both Stark daughters adored her, and his heart warmed at the thought. Happy that Brienne had pledged herself to people who saw her value as he did.

“I hope our blood is just as stubborn,” he said, shoving his hand underneath his armpit for warmth. Tyrion’s room came with a heated vent from a hot spring, but the Kingslayer had not been given such an honor. This was very different than his first trip to the castle. “What would father say if he knew his two sons were doomed to die at Winterfell?”

“I’m sure he’s rolling in his grave,” Tyrion said. His brother had never apologized for killing their father, but he doubted he felt the need. He knew he didn’t feel guilty about it – justified by all the terrors their father had put him through. Even in Jaime’s own anger, he could hardly blame him. “But these are different times. The dead are at our door, and Winterfell is no longer as it once was. The complexities of King’s Landing now work inside their walls.”

He didn’t have to remind Jaime of what the Stark children once were. The image of Bran’s young face had haunted his dreams since he’d pushed him from the towr. He had crippled the boy’s legs, and lands beyond the Wall had stolen what little innocence might’ve remained. _The things we do for love._

The two women readied their stances, and the entire audience leaned forward. Tyrion was close enough they rubbed arms, and he breathed in a whisper so quiet, Jaime would’ve still missed it if not trained for it. “You know as well as any that love never ends well,” he whispered, his breath nipping clouds of warmth. “Any fool with eyes knows the queen’s in love, but I don’t think Jon Snow shares your preference for blondes.”

Jaime looked back to the bastard-turned-king-turned-warden. He was saying something to his sister, and again the image of Eddard and Catelyn gleamed before him. Jaime didn’t say anything, only scrunched his brows as Brienne grunted particularly loudly before falling into a stumble. His heart clenched as Ser Dayne’s daughter twisted, using Brienne’s own momentum to push her into the white-covered ground.

Lady Dayne stood over Brienne, both women breathing heavily as they looked at one another. Dawn pointed at his woman’s neck. Several lords broke out into claps, and Lady Dayne waved kindly before helping Brienne back to her feet.

“I don’t think any of that mattes,” Jaime continued as conversation revived around the courtyard. Tyrion explained that the women spent more of their time in the training yards with the foot soldiers, for morale, so now their courtyard spars were even more valued by the high-born that stayed confined to the castle. “Marriage is the natural choice between them. Everybody knows it’s the only way to truly claim the North’s loyalty.”

Tyrion nodded, the two staying in their corner as more and more lords pushed themselves between Brienne, Lady Dayne and Arya. He wondered at the number of proposals between Lady Dayne and the little Stark, and if his brother’s spies were anything to go by, the number of rejections.

“Marriage is good for that, most of the time,” Jaime said. Not for Myrcella. Not when houses were run by hateful people. Lady Dayne didn’t seem hateful, but he still worried about what harm she could reap. His brother deserved happiness – far bertter than a woman who would testify against him in trial. One who would never sleep with their _father_, of all men. “Lady Dayne is an unexpected gem. She has the makings of a strong ally. Marriage to someone such as the _Hand of the Queen_ would be a good act of faith.

Tyrion coughed as though he’d choked on good wine, and Jaime relished in the victory. “That’s absurd. I could never suggest that to the queen,” he said, wiping his hand over his face and beard. “She’s still angry with me, for good reason. I lost her two of her allies by _you_ outsmarting me, and I lost her one of her dragons by thinking Cersei would help our efforts if she understood. The idea would only look like a feeble attempt to add security to my position.”

“Are you not friends with the Spider? Ask him for one of his ‘birds’ to convince her,” Jaime said, chin motioning to the Dornish lady knight. “If it comes from her mouth, your queen wouldn’t be able to refuse.”

“I can’t,” Tyrion said, shaking his head.

The reaction only confirmed Jaime’s suspicions. It was a prudent match; even Jaime could see that. The dragon queen certainly would. Tyrion’s feelings must be farther than he expected, or he was just that frightened of his own queen.

A horn blaring stole away everyone’s intentions, and a man shouted, “Open the gates!”

Jaime nearly allowed himself to hope Cersei had kept her promise, but then the gates opened to reveal wildings riding alongside black knights. A sight he never thought he would see, and only proved what should’ve been impossibilities were more likely than his sister keeping her word. The Northmen even seemed to tolerate the wildlings. It was clear they all owed Jon Snow very much.

“Umber flags. A good sign.” Lady Dayne stood next to them, a fur coat thrown over her fighting attire. Both her cheeks and nose were red from the cold and exertion. She stood next to a northern woman with grey eyes and a long, freckled face. “That means everyone not fighting in the battle can prepare to leave for the Iron Islands.”

“Ah, then I’m sure you’ve heard I’m to leave with the women and the children,” Tyrion mumbled. Jaime’s mouth dropped open. How had he not heard that? But that was perfect, wasn’t it? His brother would survive, even when Jaime didn’t. He could die that much more content. “Do you know my house’s words? ‘Hear me roar.’ But who’s ever heard of a dwarf lion?”

“I think you just answered your own question,” Lady Dayne said, her fur coat slipping a little as she shrugged. “We are more than our houses. You are the infamous Imp, and you, Ser, Kingslayer.”

Jaime’s was shocked into silence at her candor, but Tyrion nodded as if he understood her perfectly, so she continued, “I’m a bastard, and so is the Warden of the North. Her Majesty and I grew up in a world surrounded by powerful men. I wasn’t born with any birthright, only the blood of the last man to be worthy of the title Sword of the Morning. But also, the blood of a whore.”

“You’re a very blunt woman,” Jaime said, shaking his head. He then noticed how the crowd had given them nearly ten feet of privacy, but how they all huddled very close together. “But you’re talking to two lions standing in a den of wolves. You can’t tell me that our house isn’t all they see. Look at how they avoid us, even now.”

“Their love has to be won. It isn’t just given,” Lady Dayne said, as if he didn’t already know. The North had always hated foreignes. “Jon Snow won their love in the Battle of the Bastards. And the North loved him and his blood so much they named him king. That’s a special sort of bond, and Queen Daenerys did that for me. She named me a Dayne. My gratitude to her is second only to my people naming me Sword of the Morning. I would be too selfish if not thankful for her giving me my father’s name.”

“Her Majesty said we chose you or no one,” Tyrion said, clearly happy for the easy opportunity to praise his queen.

“Mm.” The princess had likely forgotten Jaime was there, as she was turned completely to his brother as she titled her head. With a strand of long hair falling over her tipped shoulder, she made for a vision. It was easy to see why everyone was so taken with her, especially when she also proved herself skilled in combat of swords and words. But by the way the two were ogling one another, Jaime realized his brother’s longings might not be unrequited. “You would think in seven kingdoms, there would be more people with the right name and face that actually deserve to sit on that chair. Who would’ve thought that the Mad King’s daughter would care about the realm at all? That she’d risk her life and her dragons to help defeat the army of the dead.”

–too late to burn them.”

They all turned towards Jon and the wildling’s conversation at the same, inching forward together as wagons of men, women and children began to file through the gates.

“Anyone who’s not here is part of the Night King’s army,” the large wilding said, sending a hush over the entire courtyard. “They’ll be here by nightfall in two days’ time.”

“That’s Tormund Giantsbane,” Tyrion supplied helpfully (as he always did), motioning to the seven-foot redhead. “Famed on the battlefield and one of Jon’s closest friends. He even fought beside him in the Battle of the Bastards.”

“So, the rumors are true. The North’s treaty with the Wildlings isn’t just temporary,” Lady Dayne whispered. She pulled at the fingers of her glove before continuing louder, “I don’t think his heart has truly left the Night’s Watch, even if some call him deserter.”

“My lady?”

Lady Dayne spoke louder still, enough so that the surrounding Northmen might hear her praise. “A black knight’s mission is to protect the Seven Kingdoms from the threats beyond the Wall, no? No one can say he’s not still doing that. He’s kept every oath he’s ever made.”

Tyrion fidgeted as the lady proved herself a worthy contender, and Jaime stepped away to give them better privacy. Instead, his eyes fell back to Jon Snow and Tormund Giantsbane, until another flash of auburn hair flitted towards the pair of men. Lady Sansa Stark.

“He surrounds himself with those kissed by fire,” a wilding woman whispered too loudly to actually be a whisper. “That’s why he’s so lucky.”

_The complexities of King’s Landing now work inside their walls. _

_I don’t think Jon Snow shares your preference for blondes._

Jaime looked at the half-siblings again.

Her hand was always on his arm, but they were always just a little too far apart. He had mistaken that for just awkwardness, a product of them being forced to show a united front. He hadn’t noticed the way Sansa never looked at him, even when they stood alone. Or how Jon touched her hand on his arm too often.

They looked a little too much like Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully.


	14. Jon

It was Sansa who had convinced him to summon the Kingslayer. She insisted that even if he didn’t trust him, it was better to know your enemies. That people mostly died because of what they didn’t know, rather than the battles right in front of him. But it was that _she_ trusted the man that finally lowered Jon’s shield. She had spoken for him at his arrival, too, but he didn’t expect her to actually trust him. But since his arrival, Jon had found them together on more than one occasion. 

“I was surprised when your man approached me,” Jaime said, sitting nearly as awkwardly as Jon was across his desk. The same one his father used to sit at to do his daily duties before the world stole him away from his home. “Our families have never been… close.”

Lady Brienne was the most loyal woman he’d ever met. Surely her vouch meant _something_ about his honor, even if she was blinded by her affections. Sansa had said love made people foolish, but when he asked Sansa why she was no longer worried about the man she laughed as though it was obvious. Maybe it was. Jon cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk about what your plans are, should you survive against the battle against the Night King’s army,” Jon said, not caring for wasting time with small talk. “Everyone is well aware you haven’t bent the knee, but no one knows if you’re more loyal to your sister or your brother.”

The Lannister stood, then, shuffling around Jon’s chambers until he found the wine. “My apologies. Normally I don’t drink wine, but it seems to help my siblings.”

He didn’t have to tell Jon that. Lady Sansa drank the beverage nearly every night before bed now – a new habit she’d picked up when he’d traveled south – once it was late enough that no one would bother her but a Stark.

“Tyrion told me that Cersei didn’t like Lady Brienne,” he said. The words had the desired effect, and Jamie nearly spilled his wine. Sansa was right about surprising people, too, to get their true reactions. “I see the bond between you two, and she is the most loyal person I’ve ever met.”

“You don’t have to warn me she’d kill me for either of your _sisters_,” Jaime said. His smirk made Jon nauseous. “I already know that.”

“I owe Brienne, Ser Jaime. Sansa would be dead without her, or worse.” Jon’s hand sought out the comfort of Longclaw’s hilt, and he gripped it as the once great lion took a large gulp of Dornish wine. “I know that she cares about you. If I can avoid putting you on opposing sides of the field, I will. But I need to know if you’re a threat to my family once the dead army is gone.”

“Brienne saved my life,” Jaime said, for the first time warming under the fireplace’s red glow. Sansa must right about the feelings being mutual, and Jon found himself agreeing she was ever bit as clever as Arya claimed. “When a woman as good as her says that you’re an honorable man, it makes you want her to be right. I gave her my sword, and she named it Oathkeeper – I thought myself a little more worthy. But seeing Dawn fight in the hands of Ser Arthur Dayne’s daughter reminded me that this sword at my hip is half of Ice.”

Jon hadn’t expected that, and he fidgeted in his seat. “Aye,” he said, not able to muster up anything more.

“Oathkeeper is already fighting for the Starks in Brienne’s hand, but this steel has been tainted,” Jaime said. He unsheathed the sword before holding it out.

_Half of Ice. Half of his father’s sword._

“I’m returning the other half of Ice to you. I should’ve as soon as I entered Winterfell,” Jaime said, handing it over.

Jon froze, his grip tightening possessively over its hilt. He pulled it closer, but then Longclaw shifted at his side. No, he already had a sword. This was too big for Arya, and neither Bran nor Sansa had need of it. And Valyrian steel deserved to be in the hands of a proper soldier. “Keep it,” he said, handing it back out as Jamie’s mouth fell open. “At least through the Long Night. It’s Valyrian steel. If you’re to have a chance at one of the Night King’s commanders, you’ll need it. Only that steel and dragonglass can work against their blades.”

“My mother used to warn me if I went too far north, I’d find black magic. Tyrion used to scare me with horror stories about the old kings of the North, but my father would say that the Stark men had lost their ambition, so I had nothing to worry about,” Jaime said, reluctantly sheathing the blade back at his hip. “That if you ever traveled South, you’d melt before you crossed the Twins.”

_Is that why he chose to slaughter my brother there? His pregnant wife? Lady Catelyn?_

“He didn’t have to tell me that the weakness he meant was _honor_,” Jaime continued, and Jon blinked. “I loved my father, and I loved my sister, but they’ve never understood the idea of honor. Only legacy. Only family. I should’ve known my sister was lying about sending her armies.”

The lion slipped out of Jon’s chambers before he could think of a response. So instead he sat there, trying to make sense of their conversation until somebody else knocked at his door. He already knew who it was, from the familiar three, hard strikes. “Come in.”

Sansa opened the door but didn’t move inside as he’d expected. “Bran asked me to bring you to Samwell Tarly. Said he had something to help you equip better for ‘what needs to be done’. I think you better listen to him.”

“Every time I think you’re the one that’s changed the most, Bran goes and remind me,” Jon said, huffing before pushing himself from his chair and following her into the hallway. He hadn’t noticed Ghost at her tail, but slowed to pet his white fur. Sansa’s hand clenched around his arm, and they walked towards his best friend’s chambers. “I almost hate how helpful the Three Eyed Raven is.”

“I was glad to be sitting when he told us of the giant spiders,” Sansa said, shuddering as though they would crawl from the shadows any second. “But he’s certainly been very helpful whenever I’ve asked him a question. Seeing people still is never everything – especially since the dead don’t _speak_ – but it definitely helps. I still see Bran in there, though, no matter how much he claims otherwise.”

“And we can trust Bran,” Jon said, biting his tongue as she hummed her agreement. “I don’t think we have to worry about Jaime Lannister. I summoned him this morning. He left right before you knocked.”

“I’m hardly worried about a man in love with the most loyal woman I know,” Sansa said, waving away the thought as they reached Sam’s room. Was that why she wasn’t worried? Was love not as dangerous when it was mutual? “Bran and Arya keep too much to the shadows, except when giving the north valuable information or demonstrating how one Stark is worth twenty in battle. You’re the only one threatening us with falling in love.”

Jon scoffed, but his ears were too warm. She looked at him with her calculated gaze, but he knew for once it came to the wrong conclusion. _Let her misread the guilt in his eyes._ “‘The lone wolf dies…’”

“‘But the pack survives.’” She scratched behind Ghost’s ears, and the direwolf’s tail wagged. “I hope you don’t forget that, Jon. You might’ve bent the knee to Daenerys, but she’s not our pack.”

“Don’t talk that way, even with me,” he warned, glancing around as if an enemy would jump out from some hiding space. He turned his back to her and raised his fist to Bran’s door, not able to say any more.

“Come in,” his friend called. He heard Sansa huff before following him inside the room, but his attention was already being stolen away by Samwell. He was rocking Little Sam to sleep with one arm, while the other massaged Gilly’s swelling belly.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but Bran asked me to bring Jon to you. He said that you would know what to tell him,” Sansa said, pushing Jon further inside the room. She smiled at Little Sam’s bobbing head as the child fought away sleep, before focusing on his mother. “I also wanted to take advantage of the opportunity and invite you and Little Sam to supper with me, as early as now, if it pleases you.”

“Me, milady?” Gilly gawked.

“You’re too kind, Lady Sansa,” Sam said, smiling softly at he cupped his woman’s rounded belly that contained his child. Little Jon. “Go now. Your stomach just growled, and you deserve a good meal.”

“Wolves might bite, but we protect our pack. You need good food so your baby can grow healthy,” Sansa said, reaching out for the now sleeping child and smoothly maneuvering him until his cheek rested against her shoulder. Jon’s stomach tumbled, and he took a step closer to his friend. “Gilly, don’t underestimate what time away from men can do. I also invited Lady Dayne. We need conversations, just women, in times like this the most. Don’t you think?”

“Th– thank you, milady,” Gilly stuttered, wide eyes flying to Sam before she followed Sansa back out the door.

“I’m glad they get along,” Jon said. Glad that Sansa viewed Sam and Gilly as part of their pack. That she would protect his friend’s family as her own.

“And quite the political statement,” Sam said, head nodding as he wrangled with his hands. He was nervous, and Jon’s Adam’s apple bobbed as Ghost circled in front of him before settling at his side. Jon reached out to pet him as Sam continued to chatter on, “Inviting Gilly to supper with the Princess of Dorne. Two of the four strongest women in the Seven Kingdoms declaring they support friendship with the Free Folk.”

Jon stood back up so he could pace, his own nervous only worsened when he saw his friend’s anxiety. _What does Bran want him to tell me? What did he see?_

“What does Bran want you to tell me?” he asked.

Sam shushed him before jumping up, locking the door before wiping at his beard. “I thought we were supposed to wait until after the Night King was dead, but I guess Bran changed him mind,” he said, motioning to the rocking chair by the hearth and a wooden crib.

“What do you mean?” Jon asked when he said nothing even after they’d seated.

“Do you know?” Sam asked, twisting at the wool blanket he’d draped across his lap. Jon was suddenly nauseous. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._ “Daenerys Targaryen – do you know what she did? Do you know she executed my father and brother? They were her prisoners and refused to bend the knee, so she commanded Drogon to burn them alive. Her red priestess says it’s the purest form of death.”

Jon had never heard Sam _hiss_ before, but his friend was shaking. He stared at his friend as he willed the right words, but they were weak. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I’m sorry, but we need her to win this war.”

“Would you have done it?” Sam pressed.

Olly’s face as he stabbed Jon’s heart flashed before his eyes, and he looked away from his friend. “I’ve executed men who’ve disobeyed me.”

“You’ve also spared men. Thousands of wildings when they refused to kneel,” Sam said.

Jon’s heart hammered in his chest, and he longed for Sansa to be there. She always had the right words. “Why are you saying all of this, Sam? I bent the knee. I am not the King in the North anymore.”

“I’m not talking about you being the King in the North. I’m talking about the King of the bloody Seven Kingdoms.” His words were hushed, but they rang out Jon’s head like bells in a tower. Sam jumped to his feet, a swell of determination akin to courage ringing through his voice as he whisper-shouted, “Bran and I worked it out. I had a High Septon’s diary, and Bran had whatever Bran has.”

“What are you talking about? You know who my mother is?” Jon asked, the wish tumbling out of his mouth before he even realized that was what he most wanted to hear. But it was. And Sam’s face didn’t look as though he was about to say no.

“Your mother was Lyanna Stark,” Sam said. The room started to spin, but his friend wasn’t finished. “You father was Rhaegar Targaryen. Your father married your mother before you were conceived.”

Jon fell back into his chair. No, none of this was right.

“You’ve never been a bastard. You’re Viserys Targaryen, true heir to the Iron Throne.” Jon’s old burn on his hand itched, and he took off his gloves. Pulled at his collar. Digested what the Three Eyed Raven – what _Bran_ had seen. His friend’s words tasted bitter, but they held a sort of truth that burned Jon’s stomach. “I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to take in, but it’s the truth.”

“My father was the most honorable man I ever met,” Jon said, fists shaking on his lap. “You’re saying he lied to me all my life.”

“Ned Stark did whatever he had to do to protect you. He promised your mother he would right seconds before she died,” Sam said. “So he did. Robert would’ve murdered you if he knew. You’re the true king. Viserys Targaryen, Fourth of His Name, Protector of the Realm, all of it.”

_But not a Stark,_ his mind shouted. _Not Eddard Stark’s son._ “Daenerys is our queen,” he said instead.

“She shouldn’t be.”

“That’s treason,” Jon hissed, glancing around the room, to the bottom of the door. Fearing to catch the shadow of someone’s feet but seeing nothing. Did Sam want to die? “You can’t say that to me, not to Gilly, not to anyone. Do you hear me, Sam?”

“I have just one question to ask, and then I’ll say nothing else.” Somehow, that only made Jon’s heart beast faster. “You gave up your crown to save your people. Would she do the same?”

Jon fell into his hands and groaned. “I can’t deal with this. Not now. Not while the Night King is still alive.”

“Bran wanted you to know now for a reason,” Sam said. “I’ve heard Lady Sansa say that ‘knowledge is power’, and Bran sees more than any of us. And just because he’s your cousin now doesn’t make him any less of your brother.”

Jon flinched. No, it couldn’t be true. Bran was his brother. Arya was his sister. Sansa was his…

“I won’t say anything else, but you need to figure out why Bran wanted you to know now. He sees something we don’t, clearly,” Sam said, a nervous giggle that sounded more like a hiccup bubbling before he wiped away the sweat that drenched the hair on this forehead.

Jon stayed still, not ready to move on from a symptom of this lineage. Sansa was his cousin, not sister. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he tried to re-find reality. The one where he bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen and their union was already being orchestrated by her men.

At least the marriage would mean he would keep the dragon queen far away from Sansa. And he realized yet another danger of Sam and Bran’s news. Daenerys was a jealous woman, and she had fallen in love in a way that Jon had only seen once. He had realized _that_ when he placed the look that she’d given him one night. It was how Littlefinger used to look at Sansa before she killed him.

“Who else knows?” he asked.

Sam wiped sleep away from his eyes. He didn’t feel guilty as Sam started pinching his nose to stay awake. Jon would feel guilty, but this was important, and Sam could just as easily fall asleep after answering his questions. It was the least he could do after flipping Jon’s world upside down.

“As of right now, just Bran, myself, and Howland Reed,” Sam said. He saw Jon’s confusion, and he sighed. “He was there at the Tower of Joy when Ned found your mother. I wouldn’t suggest telling Lady Dayne this, but it also turns out Eddard only beat her father because Howland Reed stabbed the knight in the back.”

That didn’t sound right, either. Jon wiped at his face and slumped into his chair. “He’s kept the secret all this time, so I don’t see why he would loosen his lips after all this time. Bran didn’t see that he had?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure why he decided you suddenly needed to know,” Sam said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m sure he’d tell us if it was important.”

Jon only looked to Ghost, whose red eyes stared back, blinking indifferently. The direwolf had always been Jon’s proof that he was a Stark as much as the rest of them. All gods were cruel – the old, the new, and even the fire god Daenerys’s red witch and Jon’s own resurrector served – but they didn’t make mistakes. And they had given the Starks _six_ direwolf pups.

_And Daenerys two surviving dragons._

Jon remembered the way Ghost had never minded Rhaegal. The way the two shared a cow once, even as Ghost continued to growl at Drogon whenever the two crossed. Ghost, who protected their pack better than any of them, had befriended a dragon.

Jon stood up from his chair, waving Sam to stay seated. “Stay here. There’s something I need to do.”

It was time he accepted another of Daenerys’s invitations to feed her children. He had an idea that, and there was only one more day until the Long Night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you are probably wondering why I've named him Viserys... while I know basically everyone agrees Rhaegar would've never named both of his sons Aegon (like really D&D?), you likely hate this name just as much thanks to Dany's pig-headed brother. BUT here's the thing... Rhaegar was obsessed with prophecies. He was insistent that a dragon needs three heads. He named his first two children after Aegon the conqueror and his sister Queen Rhaenys. I can't believe that he would name Jon anything BUT Viserys after Queen Visenya. Argue all you want. It's the only way I see it. (And it's not like I'm going to be calling him anything but Jon anyway.)
> 
> Hope despite the name change you all enjoyed the chapter!


	15. Daenerys

When Jon had climbed on Rhaegal’s back, it was though the Lord of Light was declaring him her king consort for all to see. He had denied her seduction sooner than she’d hoped, but he had finally kissed her for the first time since arriving in the North. When a raven landed on his shoulder with a message from the cripple brother requesting they return to Winterfell, she had seen red. His family always knew just when to steal him back from her, only ever giving her little moments alone with him.

Upon the arrival at Winterfell, they found Kinvara and Varys waiting for them at the castle’s entrance. Odd, those two were never together willingly. “What happened?” she asked, already braced for the blow.

Ser Davos came bounding through the door, slamming the door behind him before marching their way, “Execute her! You promised you would if she ever came back!” he shouted, arms billowing around as spit flew from his mouth. “I’ll do it myself if I have to!”

That only peaked Daenerys’s interest without answering any of her questions. She leaned into Jon as she turned back to her advisors. “Who is he going on about?”

“Another servant of the Lord of Light,” Kinvara said. Daenerys relaxed. The red priestesses and their god had only further proven that she was following her destiny. That the Iron Throne wasn’t just her birthright, but responsibility. She was the princess that was promised. “Who was banished by your warden some time ago. I urge you to show her mercy, so that R’hllor might be moved to show us mercy in the battle to come.”

“Melisandre,” Jon breathed beside her. His brows were scrunched as though he was in pain, and his face pinched. “I banished her because she burned a child alive, in the name of your Red God.”

“Our god’s plan is perfect, but his servants are not,” Kinvara said, carefully removing her red cloak as they walked towards the Great Hall. Dany realized she’d recognized the name from Tyrion; this woman had once claimed Stannis Baratheon the prince that was promised.

“I will hear her speak,” she said. Jon nodded obediently before pushing open the large oak door that led to a yet chair that was not the Iron Throne. She took her place in the center of the front table, hearing the murmurs as the Northmen saw that she entered with Jon. Good. They needed to get used to the idea of their warden with her. That he would have to take her last name to ensure the future of House Targaryen. That he was hers. She had seen their children in her dreams, with his black hair and her violet eyes, since the moment he uttered his disbelief at the witch’s curse. She dared hope she wasn’t as barren as North lands had shown to be. That a new wheel wasn’t built after she died.

Lady Sansa slipped beside Jon, and he instantly leaned into her as she whispered a secret. Daenerys bit her tongue, nodding to Ser Barristan as he took his place at her other side. She took off her gloves, finger by finger, as she focused on the candle that had been placed between her and Jon. She reached towards it, enjoying the way fire looked as it licked harmlessly against her skin.

The red woman in question already stood at the front of the nearly empty hall. The fire god favored beautiful woman as his servants, and she saw this priestess was no different from Kinvara in that regard. She wore a dress nearly as scanty as the one wore by the High Priestess.

“Your Grace, may I present Lady Melisandre of Asshai,” Kinvara said, waving at the woman before turning her charms towards the lords. The Northern gods were old, and the High Priestess struggled the most of all of her advisors in Winterfell. Someone else had to start talking quickly or they would lose what few Northern lords had gathered.

Lady Sansa cleared her throat, and Daenerys held her breath. “Your god has no place in the North, my lady, but I agree that we should show Lady Melisandre mercy.” Daenerys blinked before glancing to a surprised Tyrion. Another agreement from the Lady of Winterfell? Or would it be taken back just as quickly? “Lady Melisandre, I have heard of your mistakes, but I have also heard of what you did for Jon. My good lords, you should all know that our good lord, my brother, would not be alive if not for this woman. She brought him back from the dead with her red magic.”

Daenerys would never forget the first time she saw the scars. When she realized that the rumors were true. That he had been killed in a mutiny on the Wall. And that he had somehow come back. She had long since given up asking questions about it, never getting more than a few words or grunts from him, but it seemed that he had shared more with _Lady Sansa_.

Her words sparked agreement around the room, and Jon was staring at a red-faced Ser Davos. He licked his lips, before betraying her again and shaking his head in disagreement. “Lady Melisandre will stay through the Long Night. But should she survive, she will die by my hand. I will not break my oath.”

Sansa pressed her lips together, and Daenerys realized they still saw eye to eye. A woman who could resurrect the dead was too great an asset to give up over whatever silly sins she had committed.

“So, it’s settled, then. I will not ask you to break your vows. Kinvara, please find Lady Melisandre a spare room,” Daenerys said. She stood up, clasping her hands together as she grinned to the few lords in the hall before focusing on their warden. She outstretched her arm, and Jon stood into her embrace. He nodded goodbye to his sister, lords, and ladies, before guiding her to the door in the corner.

Daenerys barely managed to wait until they were alone, the question tumbling out of her mouth in a jumble, “Is Melisandre the reason you’re scared of Kinvara?” He flinched so sharply, Daenerys stopped in her tracks. She pulled at his hands until he faced her and glided her fingers up to his chin. He closed his eyes, and Dany enjoyed the chance to steal a kiss.

His hands rested on her hips, and she leaned just far enough away so she could look into his grey eyes. “I wish you would talk to me more. I want to help you, but your family won’t let me. Your sister whispers you secrets right in front of me,” she said, shaking her head as she moved to cup both his cheeks. “I need a husband who trusts in his wife and queen. Do you trust me?”

He looked at her for only a moment before answering her real question, “I love you.”

But was that answer enough? She could still remember Tyrion’s first advice about Jon, after he had caught him leaving her chambers on the boat. _Jon Snow is a man of his word, as his father before him. But even the great Eddard Stark lied about Joffrey being Robert’s son, when he thought it would spare his family from a war. These Starks grew up by Tully’s words, too. The words that put family before duty and honor. Jon is already falling in love with you, but no matter how smitten he falls, never make him choose. Never ask him to choose between you and his family._

“Show me, then,” she replied.

He let go of her to push open the large door they stood beside, and moisture prickled against her cheeks. Her heart stuttered; he had brought her to the glass gardens. She had never seen them before, and they were beautiful. She picked up her skirt from the ground as she followed him inside, enjoying the pungent but sweet smells of earth and fruits. Jon didn’t stop until they were in the center of the garden. He spun towards her suddenly, pulling her into an embrace.

She giggled as his lips pressed into her hair and pulled him closer. “Visit me tonight,” she whispered into his chest.

His heart sped up against her forehead, and he kissed her hair again. “I’m sorry, Dany, but I can’t,” he said, making her shoulders sag. “I have to show the lords that I bent the knee because you will be a good queen, not because I’m in love with you. We would be caught, and they would never trust me or you again. We cannot risk a war amongst ourselves. Not with what’s out there.”

“I’m glad you saved the best job for Drogon and I, for the battle to come” Daenerys said, accentuating her sentence with a kiss. “The Night King is no dragon, and he will burn like any other man.”


	16. Elia

Several people approached Elia and Torrhen as they walked through the maze of Winterfell, but she only exchanged quick words with them. The three most powerful people in the Seven Kingdoms were waiting for her; everything else could wait.

She allowed only Sarella to approach her, contingent they didn’t stop walking and she finished before they reached the Warden’s office in the tower’s fifth floor. _Damned stairs,_ she thought as the air thinned around her. Starfall had been the only Dornish castle she’d lived in with towers, a fact she was thankful for. She had lost an aunt the same day she’d lost her father, and Elia had heard her aunt Ashara’s ghostly screams as a child when she tried to sleep. The Palestone Sword, Starfall’s tallest tower, where her aunt had met her demise. (After hearing about the Stark’s crypts, but not daring to visit out of respect, Elia had decided that the Palestone Sword would serve the same function. A burial ground for the generations of Daynes yet to come.) 

“Lord Brandon Stark has been in the godswood with Lord Theon, Ser Jaime, and Bronn for the past hour, and Lady Arya just joined them,” her friend reported. The lady would have plenty to do _after_ the war as healer, but until then Elia had been able to utilize her time for other matters.

Elia smirked, raising a brow as she motioned for her friend to come closer. “And what of you and Bronn?” she whispered, and immediately Sarella’s entire face was as red as a tomato from the Reach. “I take it by your adorable blush, you still haven’t talked to him. Are you going to take my suggestion?”

To find him after the sun had fallen. To go into the Long Night with absolutely no regrets. A suggestion Elia was trying to take herself.

Missandei was waiting for them outside of Daenerys’s chambers, and they nodded in greeting before the queen’s advisor opened the door. Elia said goodbye to Torrhen as she peeked into the room through the already open door. 

She stood up straighter before she walked inside; she had not been told about everyone present. Jon Snow, Ser Barristan, and Ser Davos stood at the room’s window, a view of the snow-covered castle below. Daenerys sat at the desk’s main chair that had clearly been made for a man twice her size, and Lady Sansa across from her. Tyrion and Lord Varys took up all but one chair arranged around the chimney corner.

Not three, but _eight_ of the Seven King’s most powerful.

“My apologies for keeping you all waiting. I came at once but was visiting our forges when Lady Arya found me,” Elia said after the door huffed shut behind her. She swallowed back moisture to her dry mouth before taking another step forward. “I hope you didn’t have to wait long.”

“No. Jon and Lady Sansa only arrived a few minutes ago,” Queen Daenerys said, making Elia bite the inside of her cheek to stop from smiling. _The eight most powerful people in Westeros looked around the room for their last meeting before the Long Night and decided I should be here._ “Now that you’re here, we can begin. Tyrion, go ahead.”

Tyrion hopped from his chair, although the action didn’t make him much taller. He smiled at her (but it was more nerves than his familiar warmth) before falling into place behind the dragon’s queen shoulder. His fingers twitched at his side, and she wondered how long his stress had allowed since his last cup of wine. He shared her love of the beverage but was constantly fighting it as though it was a sin. “We have enough weapons for all of soldiers, although some men had to be equipped with spears instead of swords due to lack of both time and dragonglass. As far as the section of the castle where all of the woman, children, elderly, and _myself_ will be hiding, all but three doors have been sealed, according to plan. Evacuation routes have been plotted.”

“And what time is everyone due in their position for the night?” Lady Sansa asked.

“Queen Daenerys, Jon Snow, the Northmen and the Wildlings will leave at ten. Everyone else at midnight. That gives nearly everyone three hours after supper to spend however they want,” Tyrion said, glancing at her for an intense but short moment, and Elia was thankful he missed the blush that heated her cheek afterwards. How did he make her feel like such a maid with a single look? “But Bran said he expected the battle begin at one; however, there’s still one matter of disagreement that needs to be discussed before then.”

Elia did not miss the way Lady Sansa froze, or Lord Jon pushed himself from the wall. Everyone else but Ser Barristan fidgeted, meaning she was the only one who didn’t know what that was. Her scalp prickled, and she folded her hands in front of her. She would have to talk to Ser Harlan and Sarella about expanding their spy network.

Lady Stark surprised her by speaking just as Tyrion opened his mouth to continue. “House Stark has held Winterfell for eight-thousand years. You’re asking us to burn our history,” she said, and suddenly the room was hotter than a Dornish summer day. “Most of them are just dust and bone. Only four generations are even still bones, but they are our _blood_.”

“They are a threat,” Queen Daenerys said, her voice trembling as she glared at the Lady of Winterfell. Two powerful woman who didn’t know how to handle one another, and yet Elia found herself already attached to both. “And they will burn.”

What was it Vorian had told her? _The North is the biggest threat to Queen Daenerys after the Long Night is won. Their army might suffer in the battle, but Jon won Winterfell back with an army half the size of his opponents. Lord Jon is just like his brother, the Young Wolf – a natural commander in battle. And Lady Sansa would easily convince the Riverlands and the Vale to fight for their rebellion. It would be a long war._

“Lord Snow, you said yourself that you watched the Night King raise thousands from the dead with the wave of his arms,” Tyrion said. His voice was level and his expression calm, but the way he tapped his fingers into a steeple betrayed his nerves. “Do you really want to risk fighting against your ancestors?”

“No, which is why we’ve sealed the crypts a dozen doors deep,” Lady Sansa repeated. Her tone was a cold as the snows that covered her castle, and Elia found herself envious of her confidence. How she commanded the room as the queen’s equal, not her subject. “On the impossibly slight possibility that whatever dead Starks are young enough to rise to the Night King’s call manage to break through twelve sealed iron doors, we also poured five feet worth of oil at the base of the last staircase. There will Northmen there to light the oil to flames and cave in the crypts, should your fear arise to truth.”

Their queen was seething, and Tyrion bounced between his feet as they all waited for Daenerys’s response. The idea itself was brilliant, but Lady Sansa had delivered it so _finally_. It was clear their queen had noticed as her nostrils flared, but it wasn’t her reaction that Elia found most curious.

Jon Snow stepped forward until he was behind his half-sister, and he rested his hand on the back of her chair. “Please, Your Grace,” he said. “You know what it’s like to have your house destroyed. The Free Folk are stationed closest to the North gate, right by the crypt’s entrance. Tormund has promised me they will handle it if others fail and any dead come from below.”

The lord was standing where she could only see her profile, as Sansa’s chair was crooked so that she was just barely looking at the queen, but it gave her the perfect angle to notice. Daenerys was too entranced – too in love – to observe what Jon was betraying silently. To see the way his thumb caressed his half-sister’s chair. How he stood so close it that the tip of his boot rested against the seat’s leg. How he said ‘your grace’ more as a formality than a title. The man had bent the knee, but he would stand back up for his family. Varys had once called the Northern lord ‘naïve’ and ‘too transparent’, that they didn’t have to worry about him because he was a man of honor. That bending the knee meant staying down.

Elia had already decided after her first shared supper with the Starks that Jon would betray Daenerys for his family. He would still be a man of honor in her eyes, though, for what principled person wouldn’t die for his family?

Tyrion’s eyes narrowing on Jon’s propped hand proved there was something to see there, and Elia continued to study the pair as Daenerys finally spoke, “Very well, then. If you’re that convinced your dead ancestors aren’t a threat.”

“Excellent, I’m glad that matters resolved.” Tyrion clapped his hands and grinned tightly. “Now all we have left to do is discuss tonight’s feast. To the right of Queen Daenerys, we’re hoping to sit Lord Jon, Lady Sansa, Lord Bran, and Lady Arya. To the queen’s left, myself, Theon Greyjoy, Lady Elia, and Ser Barristan.”

“I can’t promise our sister will show,” Jon said. His voice was light as Lady Sansa stood up, winding her arm into Jon’s. The dragon queen didn’t seem to think anything of it, but Tyrion definitely did. His only two siblings were both incestuous, and he was a clever man. His continued suspicion was her confirmation._ Our sister… _Yes, the two shared Arya as a sister. But had Elia ever heard Lord Jon call Lady _Sansa_ his sister? 

“Arya’s more soldier than lady, and I would guess she’d choose to eat her supper with her comrades. Likely the first foot soldiers with ale that she can find,” Lady Sansa finished. She nodded to the setting sun outside as she continued, “The North commanders asked to meet with us before supper. We have to leave now if we’re to arrive to supper on time.”

Lady Sansa was better at hiding her emotions than her half-brother, but she plucked at her sleeve as though she was privy to a joke. The lady was possessive of her pack – that Elia already knew, but she saw something else to it now. Three families in this room alone were incestuous, if her suspicions were correct… she would’ve blamed the shared First Men ancestry if not for House Lannister. Two of them were bastards, so she couldn’t blame being high-born, either.

“We can continue our conversation then,” Daenerys said, eyes set on Lord Snow in green hunger. An ignorant jealousy. Elia couldn’t be sure if the pair had acted on their feelings, but their _existence_ would be enough for the queen.

Lord Jon would not react well to Queen Daenerys threatening his family, and it would only be worse because the threat would be made against a woman who was more lover than sibling.

The pair left, and then so did Ser Barristan and the Spider. Realizing the queen likely wanted time with her Hand, who already sat across from her at the desk, Elia turned towards the door to follow the others.

“Not you, Lady Dayne,” Queen Daenerys said. Elia stopped, and Her Majesty waved at the chair that the Lady of Winterfell had just occupied. “Please, sit. We have just one more matter to discuss with you, if you have the time.”

Elia blinked as she nodded, before slipping into the empty chair. She didn’t adjust its position before sitting down, enjoying the subtle chance to look at Tyrion better. “I hope I can be of help.”

“We do, too,” Tyrion said. He was leaned back in his chair, and his boot brushed her shin. He wiped at his beard, staring more at her forehead than her eyes as he continued, “You and your army are defending the east gate–”

“And then the Great Keep,” she added. Because the dead _would_ break the walls, even if they did somehow manage to win the battle.

“Yes, Dorne is the last army standing in between the army of the dead and the woman, children, and elderly,” Tyrion said softly, fidgeting in his chair. “But we wanted to let you know that we swapped our queen’s and Jon’s positions in the skies. He and Rhaegal will protect the northwest and his brother, and Her Majesty and Drogon will protect the southeast.”

“So, I should expect more fire?” Elia’s shoulders dropped as she smiled. Both dragons were bigger than even her wildest dreams had imagined, but Drogon was the biggest. The Dothraki thought their horses more valuable than gold, and they worshipped Drogon almost as much as their _khaleesi_. At Her Majesty’s nod in response, Elia bowed her head. “Thank you, Your Grace. It will be good for my men to watch the Mother of Dragons fight. Watching you slay our enemies by the thousands will ignite their morale in a way no other queen could.”

“You are too kind,” Queen Daenerys said, her smile warm but small as a dragon roared from outside.

Tyrion cleared his throat, then, sitting up just a little closer to her. “Our queen is formidable, but the Night King is a worthy opponent. This is a battle, but not our war. The wrong woman will still sit on the Iron Throne even after he is dead, and Her Majesty _needs_ to survive tonight to reclaim her birthright and save the Seven Kingdoms from the evil clenches of my sister.”

“Should the Night King attempt to spear Drogon as he did Viserion, your priority becomes your queen. Even if the blow is not lethal, Daenerys will have to land in order to remove the spear. She will find you before doing so, should that happen. But if the blow _is_ lethal, and our queen cannot control her landing–”

“I will run to her as quickly as I am able,” Elia said, wiggling until she was fully facing Daenerys. It had taken her one war council meeting to realize the Mother of Dragons had never won a battle without her main strategy being devastating force. Lacking a sharpened military’s mind made sense from her history; the world had never known a dragon to die from anything but old age or another dragon. Not until the Night King not only killed her child but had stolen him for his army. Queen Daenerys was still mourning the dragon’s death, and she was being forced fight against him. Her own blood.

“Good, I’m glad. The Seven Kingdoms can’t settle for just surviving again; the people of Westeros deserve someone to sit on the Iron Thrones who cares about them.” He spoke in a soft plea, and Elia’s heart and stomach warmed. That her queen had chosen such a good and clever and ruthless man as her Hand… the people were lucky. “Who will free them from the wars of our houses–”

“Who will break the wheel our houses have used to trample over the people of Westeros for far too long,” Queen Daenerys finished, her jaw set in determination. The queen’s eyes were narrow in the dark room, but their color was still bright. The deep violet that Elia had only ever seen before in the mirror. _Was this what families felt, when they saw themselves in one another?_ “The Night King will die for stealing my child, and it will be by _my_ hand. It has already been promised to me.”

_I will survive, even if you do not,_ she heard her not say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I know my plan for the crypts isn't the greatest and I also know that normally Sansa would be more pragmatic, but those are her father's and brother's bones. I also don't want to burn them and what is fan fiction if not self-indulgent so... here we are


	17. Gendry

Lady Dayne didn’t like the new sword he made her, and she had already given the last one he made away. Every time she tested another swing, her scowl deepened, and his gut would twist a little tighter.  
  
“Do not take her frown personally,” a Northern lord with hair as red as his lady said. Gendry had seen him with the princess more and more as the Long Night drew closer. “The Sword of the Morning always fights best with Dawn. They’re known to become quite attached to the blade.”

Gendry’s eyes fell to the blade that Arya had claimed was created out of the heart of a dying star. It was certainly much prettier. “My apologies, my lady, but Lord Snow insists everyone have a sword made from dragonglass. Besides, I doubt the lady wants to risk her greatsword. They say swords shatter like glass when taking a strike from a White Walker, and Dawn deserves a better fate.”  
  
The lady nodded her head in agreement, then, before sliding his sword into her belt and taking a deep breath. “Don’t apologize, Gendry,” she said as she began to braid her hair, tying it with a leather band before shrugging off her coat of fur. She was due in the training yards, again, he guessed. “My mother used to tell me about the North. How it was the larger than four of the others put together. That was filled with lands so barren every man could be given one-hundred acres, but that those who could survive its deathly chill were worth ten of another man. It was why Eddard Stark could defeat my brother in a duel. It was why the Lannisters knew they couldn’t kill Young Wolf with honor.”

Gendry wiped at the sweat on his forehead, but his hand was too damp to be of any real help. “I’m not a Northman. I was born and raised in King’s Landing,” he said with a shrug. “But I have great respect for their Han – for Jon’s advisor, Ser Davos. He saved me from the red woman who arrived in Winterfell this morning.”

The princess hummed in a way that reminded him of Sansa. The Ice Queen always played with words like an instrument. Was able to make him say whatever she wanted to hear. A lady he might’ve feared as much as the dragon queen, if she wasn’t Arry’s sister.  
“I have never been a particularly religious woman. The gods, both old and new, have never done anything for me. But then that woman Kinvara told me something interesting. That it was because she saw my face in the flames and that the queen’s decision to name me was proof that she was a princess promised to the world,” Lady Elia said.  
But his attention had already been stolen away, evidenced by the way his short hairs prickled atop his arms. He could always feel her before he could see her.

“That would’ve made more inclined to like this strange god. Afterall a god of fire would do well in Dorne’s summers,” the lady continued as her lord friend moved to inspect a small pile of dragonglass daggers. He threw one to her before slipping one into his own pocket. Gendry held his tongue. “But then the Lady of Winterfell told me more, in that way she’s always so helpful. Claimed that this red god told a father to burn his young daughter alive. That he sent a black ghost with that same man’s face to kill his brother. That this god plays the game of thrones as well as any, and that the god has made no promises for the living once the dead return the ground.”

“She sent you to me,” Gendry said, doing his best to be subtle in his attempt to find their hidden observer as the dragonglass began to melt in front of him. A woman who know how to hide in both the shadows and the light. Who he would not see unless she wanted him to.  
“Yes, she did. Said the red woman who saved her brother also tried to kill you,” Lady Dayne said, effectively stealing back his attention. “Lady Sansa has told me a lot, but I was hoping you could tell me more.”

A dagger landed in the wooden pole above his head, and he might’ve jumped if not already too used the woman’s pranks. Arya appeared out of thin air on the chair behind the Northern lord, and she threw another dagger before turning towards Lady Dayne’s amused expression.

“It’s one of my favorite stories,” she said, and Gendry bit his tongue. Damn. She was jealous. “What Lady Melisandre did to him. How willingly he walked into her trap.”

“A god who chooses his women’s faces a little too narrow-mindedly, for my taste,” Lady Elia agreed.  
  
“A fire god has no place in the North.” The red-haired lord’s head shook as he moved across from Gendry to watch him work. “The First Men knew better. Our gods are of the forest and winter, just like our men.”

It was a good thing Gendry had grown more used to people watching him. A steadily growing group of Winterfell’s servants came to see him every day, and Jon Snow himself had come five times in the past two days. Since the Night King’s men moved east, and the women and children’s path to the Iron Islands was blocked.

“The First Men?” Lady Dayne asked, eyebrows high. “My mother only worshipped the new gods. She never told me...”

“That your ancestors knew better, just like the Starks,” Arya supplied, pushing herself up from her seat, only to lean against one of the wooden poles. “Speaking of, my sister sent me to find you. Sansa, Jon, and Daenerys – they want to talk to you about some changes to the battle plan. I would escort you, but she also needs me to check a few things with the blacksmiths. Do you know where my brother’s office is, my lady?”

Gendry swallowed as he poured the molten dragonglass into its mold.

“I do. This sounds important, so I shouldn’t leave them waiting,” Lady Dayne said, accepting her companion’s outstretched arm as they edged towards the exit. “I’m assuming I’ll see you by the end of the night, Lady Arya.” She smiled at him, though, as she curtseyed. “Gendry, find me the next time you have a break. I hope our conversation about the red woman isn’t over yet.”

He cleared his throat as Arya’s fake grin widened. “I will, m’lady.”

It was smartest to let her start any conversation, so Gendry refocused on the blade. He beat it into shape, and she leaned against her pole for nearly ten minutes. An apple appeared out of one of her pockets, and Arya crunched into it. It was only the sound that combated him striking dragonglass against dragonglass. (He had quickly learned the weapons were easier to mold with a hammer made from the same material.) Otherwise, they silently pretended to ignore each other.

Arya threw the core of her apple. He paused until it rolled to a stop in front of the fireplace, not even flinching when another knife sliced threw it into the hair’s breath between her other two on the pole. “It’s amazing how quickly Sansa works. Did you notice anything interesting between Lady Elia and Lord Hutter?”

He began another sword without looking at her, relief delaying him in answering her question. She wasn’t going to tease him about Lady Dayne, or at least had other matters to discuss first. “He’s been with her the last two times she’s come to visit, and I saw them sparring in the training yards yesterday. Is he your sister’s spy or something?”

“No, Sansa appointed him to discuss trade for after the Long Night is won,” Arya said, winding around him until she could catch his eye. She tapped her lips telling him speak quieter. Oh right, ears followed the Starks everywhere, always listening for information. Ears that worked for the Spider, the Hand, or some other enemy. Ears that could be hiding just on the other side of his tent. Arya could whisper quietly enough to not be heard, though, and so she continued on much softer, “But she wouldn’t be upset if a bond sparked between them. Lord Hutter is respected amongst the lords and ladies. Lady Elia knew and loved his sister as a child. A marriage between them would be useful, and the circumstances almost made it too easy.”

“Sometimes your sister scares me. She’s too perspective,” Gendry confessed, earning Arya’s first genuine smile since she’d arrived in his tent.

“I’m glad she’s in our pack,” Arya said, pushing herself out of his view again. She huffed, and he heard a table creak. He glanced behind his shoulder to see she was removing the knives she’d thrown, caressing the new marks on the wood before hopping back down. “Jon and I are only helpful when the answer involves killing somebody.”

“That’s not true,” Gendry said. He turned around to her fully then, knowing he had her attention even as she scrubbed at the daggers. “It’s true, Lady Sansa can protect you in a way you, Jon, and Bran can’t. But that’s what I think makes your family so strong – how different you are from one another. You kill in the shadows, and Jon kills with an audience. Bran might also be the Three Eyed Raven or whatever now, but he’s still a Stark. He answers all of Lady Sansa’s questions and warns you anything the rest of you might’ve missed.”

Arya moved towards him, close enough until he could reach out and touch her if he dared. To others, she might as look as though she was scowling, but Gendry knew she was just lost in thought. “Bran told me that the Three Eyed Raven’s main job is to protect the living. To be man’s last shield against the dead and the gods. He said that every Raven that’s ever lived has chosen his successor as his final strategic move for how he saw the future. And he chose a Stark.”

“Smart man,” Gendry mused. He smirked, about to turn around again until she stepped even closer. “Did your sister tell you to ask me anything else?”

“No. I tried to help seal the doors, but Ser Davos told me I was just getting in the way,” she said, shrugging lightly. “But then Jon reminded me that Winterfell has doors that only Starks know, so I have to go make sure the torches are lit so we won’t have to run in darkness.”

“Secret passageways?” Gendry asked, grinning as he thought of the idea. Arya rolled her eyes, but that only made his hand grab her waist before he would tell it no. And there was no point in hiding his childlike enthusiasm for her. She already knew. “Any chance you could tell me about one of them?”  
  
Arya scoffed, but then her hand was grabbing his shirt over his quickening heart. Her face was completely blank. Only her grip betrayed her emotion, her knuckles white and shaking. “If you get chased to the bell tower... it’s not a secret, because you can see the bridge, but Bran says nobody know about it because the door is hidden behind a bookshelf. The second one from the left, to be exact. It’s on the fourth floor of the tower and will bring you to the second floor of the rookery.”

He was to be stationed at the heart of Winterfell with the task of protecting the women and children. There would be only three doors that led to the sealed quarter, and he had been assigned to protect one of them with Ser Beric, the Hound, and a few others. The one right across the stairs that led to the bell tower. He didn’t remember telling her that, but all the same she knew, as always.  
  
“I have to go now. It’s almost supper, and then it’ll be nightfall.” And dead will attack before morning...

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said, hand on her waist tightening.

“Before then, you idiot,” Arya said, eyebrow twitching in amusement. She kissed him chastely, and he blinked. It wasn’t the first time since she’d arrive back at Winterfell, but he normally only felt her affection when it was green. Or if she’d just come from hours at the training yard and was in a particularly good mood.

He cleared his throat as she took a step away from him. “I’m guessing you’ll find me.”

“Aye, when I can,” she said, back moving towards the tent’s exit as her lips twisted into that damned but lovely smirk. “Try to talk to Lady Elia before supper. She’ll want to give her people her attention after night has fallen. Or even better, maybe Lord Hutter.”  
  
“I will,” Gendry said. Before he had even finished speaking, Arya slipped out of his tent.  
He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands before they settled on the back of his head. Arya wanted to spend her last night before their likely deaths... with him? He had loved her since he’d met her all those years ago, first as a friend, but then as more. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence the first woman he’d slept with was a short brunette with a sailor’s mouth.

But she was Arya Stark. He knew better about ladies and lords than when they had met, but the new knowledge had led to the same ending. Gendry would never have Arya.

_Before then, you idio_t. Gendry shook away the words, but there was still a smile as he turned back to his work.


	18. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Sorry for my lack of updates recently... I’ve written out just past the Long Night. I have a pretty good idea of how I want it to go through the end, but I need to make sure it all makes sense and that the biggest pieces are 100% going to happen before I publish the beginning post-Night King chapters. Hope you enjoy!

Tyrion walked the halls with his brother, doing his best to ignore the sounds of coupling coming from nearly every corner and room around them. He envied them desperately, his days of wooing whores long since passed. His heart had healed remarkably since that ill-fated day, but still whenever he so much as contemplated visiting the brothels his heart twisted and his cock shriveled up.

They walked outside, the harsh blast of winter winds slicing through to his bones as they neared the great hall. They were outside for less than two minutes, but he felt as though his body was already frozen over. That was, until he saw _her_.

Lady Elia was sitting with a large group of men and women at the very edge of one of the long tables, so mismatched that he would laugh if not for the weight of the world on his shoulders. Lady Ladybright, who he had learned to be her best friend, was to her right with Bronn beside her, and Lady Stark next to the princess’s other side. Tormund sat across from them, loudly insisting to Davos that he fucked a bear. Brienne sat next to him, listening intently to Lady Elia and purposely ignoring the two women trying to woo Podrick to other side.

Tyrion turned to his brother, who was glaring back and forth between the large lady night and wildling. Though he had thought the pair greatly mismatched at the start, he had praised the old gods and the new despite not believing in either. At last, his brother was escaping the clutches of their wicked sister. It had been poetic that he fell for the most honorable woman in the Seven Kingdoms, trying to be better for her whether he admitted it or not. 

Knowing his brother would follow, he approached the group, doing his best to smile when their eyes all fell to him. “Room for two more?” he asked.

“Here, you can have our seats,” Lady Ladybright said, grabbing Bronn’s hand and pulling him to stand. His friend looked just as surprised as everyone else (save for Lady Elia), but then his lips stretched into a smirk. “We’re going to go… for a walk.”

Before anyone could comment the pair hurried away, and the brothers sat down in their places. Tyrion swallowed at the heat he felt from Lady Elia, biting his tongue when she shifted so that their thighs just barely brushed together.

“We should play a drinking game,” she announced, and Tyrion nearly fell out of his chair. The lady was wooing him without even meaning to. The world was truly cruel to present him with such a woman, so close but so unbelievably out of his reach. The entire world hated the Lannisters, but none more than the Dornish.

“That isn’t wise,” Brienne protested. “We need to stay vigilant for the battle.”

“We have several hours yet to sober up. Besides, for the game I have in mind, you have complete control over how much you drink,” Lady Elia said, smiling impishly as she looked around the group. “We will take turn whispering a question to the person to our right, asking them any question you want, the answer of which has to be somebody playing the game. The person responds aloud. If you want to know what the question was, you have to take a drink.”

Before they could begin, a quiet took over the great hall. Tyrion turned to see none other than Queen Daenerys stalking towards them from her place next to Jon Snow, looking somewhere between irritated and confused. She didn’t stop until she was directly in front of him, her violet eyes sweeping over the table until they settled on him. “Tyrion, Lady Elia, come with me,” she said, and then spun on her heels and turned back the way she came.

Lady Elia turned to him, eyebrows shot up in surprise, before she stood up to follow. Before he could follow her, he held out his hand for the horn that Tormund was holding. The wilding laughed before handing it over, and Tyrion took three large gulps before handing it back and following the two women.

They were already almost to the armory, and he quickened his steps to follow. The small courtyard was flooded with both Northmen and Unsullied, the two armies already dressed in their armor. They would be leaving within the half hour, going to strike and burn what dead they could before they reached the castle. The women didn’t enter the armory like he had expected, instead going into one of the many halls of the maze that was Winterfell.

He caught up with them now, just as Daenerys walked back outside and then into the guest house. She didn’t stop until they were in her solar. Even then, she didn’t stop moving, pacing back and forth in front of the hearth.

“Have either of you seen Jon?” she asked suddenly.

Lady Elia startled, but their queen missed it in her insistent pacing. The lady settled into a blank mask, and Tyrion’s gut dropped. She must’ve seen him, then, and knew their queen wouldn’t like her answer. She must’ve seen him with Sansa. “I haven’t, Your Grace,” she said, voice carefully flat. “He’s likely somewhere with his men, rallying their spirits before the battle. I don’t think any of the Starks know how to dedicate their time to anything but duty.”

Daenerys finally stopped moving, her irritation shifting towards anger. “They’ve had enough of him. I’m here for him. I lost one of my children for him. For his war, and he still–”

“_His_ war?” Lady Elia asked, stepping forward. Tyrion shook his head, silently begging her to stay quiet, but she ignored him. “This is the war against the dead, Your Grace. This is _the_ war. Everyone’s war.”

“All my life, I’ve only ever had one purpose. The Iron Throne,” Daenerys said. She folded her hands in front of her, glaring at Lady Elia as though she thought she could change her mind through will alone. “Jon is the same. He’s only ever known one goal. It’s why I… this is his purpose, not mine.”

“Saving _your_ people is _his_ purpose, not yours?” Lady Elia pushed, making Daenerys’s face flush red with anger.

Tyrion stepped forward so quickly he nearly tripped. He didn’t know if he was more scared for Daenerys’s wrath or Lady Dayne’s loyalty. “It is, which is why she’s here, risking everything for them,” he said, looking between the two women. “Have no worry, Your Grace. Lady Elia and I will go look for Jon Snow right now. We will try our best to bring him back to you before it’s time for you to leave.”

Daenerys looked at him, fury clear in her eyes. She stared at him for several seconds, the tension in the room nearly suffocating. Finally, she nodded. “Good. I wish you both good fortune in the battle to come. I need you both to survive. The realm needs you both to survive.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lady Elia said, dipping into a curtsey even as her shoulders stayed tense. “I needn’t wish you any luck. You do not need it. I look forward to seeing you rain fire.”

Daenerys smiled then, before turning to the fire still crackling in her hearth.

Lady Elia turned and marched back to the door, before looking at Tyrion over her shoulder. Would he ever not squirm underneath her gaze? “Shall we begin our search for Lord Snow?” she asked before slipping out of the door.

His mouth was too dry to respond, so he only nodded. He dipped into a bow for his queen in parting, though her back was to him. He struggled to catch up Lady Elia, as she walked in long strides and hadn’t the patience to wait for him.

“I think we both know where Lord Snow is,” she said when he finally reached her, just loud enough for him to hear. She looked over at him, raising a thick brow. “And I think we both know he’s exactly where he wants to be. I will not rob him of that choice, no matter how vile. Not tonight. Tonight, we have no loyalties to anyone but ourselves.”

“He plays a dangerous game,” Tyrion said. He hesitated when she opened the door to her own guest chambers, until she looked at him expectantly and swung the door open wider. He gulped before following her inside, waiting for the door to close behind him to continue, “He has a connection with our queen. I saw it in Dragonstone. He could love her, if he only gave himself the chance.”

“We do not choose who we love,” she said as she offered him a goblet of wine. He accepted it gratefully, following her to sit in the two chairs by her window, a vent from the hot springs puffing hot air to them in moist puffs. Her solar was far larger than his, and just barely smaller than the queen’s. “But I can agree it’s what’s best for the realm. These Northmen are a proud lot. They would feel better knowing that the next king or queen would be half-Stark.”

“They will come to love one another over time. I think she already does in her own way, but for the first time in her life she’s insecure. She knows she’s fallen further than he, subconsciously at least, and it’s making her lash out,” Tyrion huffed.

“Is that why?” Lady Elia asked, tilting her head to the side. She studied him as she took a sip of her wine, making him squirm again.

“And it surely doesn’t help that all of the Northmen are so cold to her, when she’s come here to help them,” he added.

Lady Elia took a large gulp of her wine, before standing and going back to the small table that she’d perched a small barrel atop. She poured herself more wine, taking another large gulp and filling it back to the brim again before moving to sit back down. “She has to earn the respect of her people. That shouldn’t be a surprise,” she said finally.

“No, but they would be more willing if their lady was,” Tyrion said, pouting despite himself. After drinking himself into a constant comatose on his trip to Essos, he had hardly touched the beverage. He was surprised how quickly he lost his tolerance, the beverage already warming his cheeks.

“I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to be honest with me,” she said, already sending his heart hammering against his chest. “No blind loyalty. No spinning your words in that clever way you always do. Just the honest to gods truth.”

Tyrion tried to swallow, but his mouth was still too dry, so he took a sip of his wine. “I will try my best,” he said.

“Will Daenerys make a good queen?” she asked simply.

“She will,” he answered on reflex.

“Why?” the lady pushed. “What are her strengths? Her weaknesses? How will she destroy the wheel?”

Tyrion drank more wine, biding his time as he thought over his answer. Lady Elia was watching him so intently, he knew she would shut him up if he tried to weave some grand speech. She wanted the truth, so he would give it.

“She knows what it’s like to be caged, to be sold, to be betrayed. She would’ve come to Westeros sooner, but she stayed so she could free slaves. She didn’t leave until she knew that the masters feared her enough to take their losses and leave. It is true that she can sometimes be volatile. Her family’s words are not ‘fire and blood’ for nothing. But even in her anger, she listens. She hasn’t marched on King’s Landing because she knows it will be a slaughter. She doesn’t want to be queen of the ashes–”

“You say she listens, but does she?” Lady Elia asked. “She burned the Tarlys alive despite your counsel.”

Tyrion’s mouth opened and closed. He shouldn’t be shocked that the news of the queen’s actions had spread, but his normal words of defense to his queen tasted too sour on his tongue. “She did,” he said instead.

“I understand that we’re at war. That the Tarlys declared for the wrong queen and had to pay for their crimes,” she added to his surprise. “But if she goes about burning alive everyone who doesn’t immediately bend the knee, there will be no one left. Even the Starks… half of these houses didn’t answer the call when they sought to take back their home. They stayed in quiet submission to the Boltons. But you would never know it. They’re unified once more.”

“They are,” Tyrion said, still not knowing what to say. He was sure it was Lord Hutter who gave her the history lesson. Lady’s Sansa’s early candidate for the lady’s hand in marriage. He pushed the thought from his mind, not wanting to dwell on how much the thought made his stomach turn.

“I guess my real question, Lord Tyrion, is this: if she turns out to be exactly like her father, at what point will your loyalty fade? When she burns another great house to extinction? When she burns more food when people in every kingdom are starving?”

“You’re sounding dangerously close to treason,” Tyrion said.

“Answer the question,” she said, refusing to back down.

Tyrion glared at her. He had thought the same question well enough to know the answer – to know he was trapped. Because no matter what she was still better than his sister. Because if she breathed more fire then he would still have no choice but to stay with her. To do his damned best to convince her at every turn to make a different choice. To make the right choice. Just as he had tried and failed to do as interim Hand for Joffrey.

“We must be good, clever, and ruthless,” he said. “I will not betray my queen for–”

“Leave,” she said suddenly, surprising him. His mouth fell open, hurt prickling his spine. “The people do not need blind loyalty.”

“The people need stability. Once the war is won, she can provide that,” Tyrion said, desperate for her to believe him. Not for the queen, but for himself. He needed her to trust him.

“And if she can’t?” Lady Elia asked. “If you suspect her of spiraling towards madness?”

Tyrion gulped. “Don’t make me say it.”

Lady Elia’s mouth twitched into smile, taking his refusal to answer for what it was. Because yes, if he stood in the place of his brother all those years go. If she ever turned her flames towards the innocent. He would do what needed to be done, even if it cost him his life.

The lady stood up, holding out her hand to take his empty goblet. He handed it over, watching her as she gently placed them on the small table. She turned back to him, but instead of sitting in her chair, she kneeled in front of him. His cock twitched at the sight, making him clear his throat uncomfortably.

“Lady Elia–”

“Please, when we’re alone call me Elia. Just Elia,” she said, rising on her knees so she was nearly level with him.

“Elia,” he started again, making her smile. Her pupils were dilated, her cheeks flushed. He knew it was from the wine, and not him, but the sight still did all kinds of unfortunate things to his head and heart. “What are you doing?”

In response, she reached up to his face, brushing her fingers gently over his scar. His eyes nearly fluttered close at the soothing motion, but he forced them to stay open. He needed to watch her. He needed to understand.

Her hand moved to his cheek, then behind his neck. She gripped it tightly, pulling him slightly towards her. “You know,” she started, licking her lips. His eyes darted down at the motion, staring at her plump lips. She was so close to him now. “I’ve talked to some of the wonderful women down at the brothel. They promised me that you’re excellent with your fingers.”

His eyes widened. He was now well and truly hard, so easily riled up after being given so little attention for so long. He glanced at her lips again, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Was he imagining this? Had he fallen asleep from too much wine and this was just a dream?

“I wanted to see if it was true,” she continued, tilting her head to the side. “What do you want?”

“You.” The word spilled from his mouth before his mind could catch up, and then suddenly her lips were on his.

Tyrion learned something he shouldn’t. Lady Elia of Dorne know how to kiss. The nibbling, licking, sucking, and – _fuck him_ – biting as she explored his mouth drove him mad with need. He reached out with one hand, tangling it in her black locks at the back of her head, holding her there as he deepened the kiss. She slid her tongue along his bottom lip, and he opened his mouth eagerly.

If he could have this one night with her, then he would take it. He would more than likely be dead before he’d face the consequences anyway.

She moaned softly, adding fuel to the fire already taking over his entire being. Her hands pawed at his wrist, and she grabs hold before moving his hand to her breast. For all her muscles from training with her legendary sword, she is still soft in all the right places. He bit down a groan, and she pulled back. Her lips were red, and her cheeks flushed, making her look somehow even more beautiful.

“Are you going to take me to bed, Lord Tyrion?”

“Fuck yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I’m done with this fic, as I believe I previously mentioned, I’ll be making sister fic which will just be different short stories and/or chapters for the characters that just didn’t fit into the flow of this story. Likely including some Season 6/7 moments for Jon and Sansa. But serious question... would you want them to get smutty or stop right when it changes from PG-13 to R?


	19. Jon

Jon sat at the feast, bound by duty to stay. He should be out making sure that everything and everyone was ready for the upcoming battle, but all of his advisors insisted that he needed to stay. That everything was in place and he would only work himself up. That he had to find his center.

The hall’s crowd had slowly been thinning throughout the night. He had stayed in his seat, slowly picking at his plate and sipping at his ale. Daenerys was next to him, listening intently to Ser Barristan discussing what parts of the castle would need the most help once the fight was brought back to everyone. She repeatedly asked where the Unsullied and Dothraki would be, and Jon’s fingers tightened around his knife. A traitorous part of him whispered how the North wasn’t hers yet, and she knew it, so why would they be her first priority? But the stronger voice shouted that this was the very reason they wouldn’t bend the knee to her, despite his pleas.

The sounds of a soft laugh instantly stole his attention, and his eyes snapped to the direction. Sansa had spent the last thirty minutes fluttering between the different people still in the hall. When he saw that it was Tormund who had made her laugh, the tension eased from his shoulders. His friend was sat with a somewhat odd group of Davos, the Lannisters, Brienne and Podrick.

“I see your sister gets along with the Wildling leader,” Daenerys said, leaning against his shoulder as she whispered. Her breath was hot against his ear, and he tried his best to not lean away from it. “That’s good. If we don’t find a southern lord for her, he would be an excellent choice. There will no longer be a need for the Wall, so it will be good to win the Wildling’s loyalty with her hand.”

With every word she spoke, his shoulders shook more and more. His hands clenched into fists on his lap, red bleeding into his vision. Not only did she want to sell off Sansa, but her greed was pushing out of just the Seven Kingdoms? The Free Folk had _never_ bowed to anyone, and they _never_ would. He looked to Sansa again, watching her accept a drink of Tormund’s ale before coughing adorably, just as she had the first night they reunited all those months ago.

“Let’s not discuss this now,” Jon said instead. He would have to discuss it with his family to know how to approach this, particularly Sansa. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake with something this important.

Daenerys studied him before suddenly breaking out into a wide smile. “I’ve had enough of the feast. I think I will try to get some rest before the night begins.”

Her invitation was clear, and he cleared his throat. He knew it was the smart thing to do. When she had invited him to her chamber on the boat, he had done it for two reasons. The adrenaline of nearly dying yet again had sent his mind into a frenzy, demanding him to do something – _anything_ – to make him feel alive. The second and main reason was that he knew Daenerys didn’t see her having a personal stake in the war against the dead. Even after seeing the army for herself, her main concern had been that her delaying her attack on Cersei could cost her the land she had gained. That very thing had kept any potential feelings from going farther but had also been his answer in how to ensure she would go North. He was desperate to get over his half-sister – no, cousin – but he would never fall for someone so single-minded and selfish in her purpose.

It made him hate himself that he would even contemplate manipulating someone, much less going through with it. But Sansa’s words echoed in his head. He had to be smarter than their father, than Robb. And he knew the only future anyone saw, including his clever _cousin_ had him wed the dragon queen.

Daenerys caressed his cheek, whipping him out of his thoughts, before taking a step back. “You know where I’ll be.”

Jon watched her go, stopping by and saying something that made both Lord Tyrion and Lady Elia stand up to follow her. He did not miss how the remaining stragglers’ conversations quieted as she walked by only to increase tenfold in volume after the door closed shut behind her. The moment it clicked shut, he jumped from his chair and approached his friends.

Tormund stood up when he saw him. “King Crow!” he said, raising his horn. “The only man who could’ve united these southern kneelers to defeat the bastard Night King.”

“Hear! Hear!” Sansa said, giggling before taking a sip from her goblet. Jon watched her, his gut twisting as he took in her flushed cheeks and easy smile. She turned back to Tormund. “And to Tormund Giantsbane. The man to introduce me to this excellent ale!”

“Tormund’s made your sister drunk,” Davos said. He and Lady Brienne were the only ones at the table without a goblet in front of them.

“Let me bring you to your chambers,” he said, walking around the corner of the table so that he was behind her.

“This might be our last night,” Sansa said, leaning back into him as she looked up at him. Again, his mind threw all of Lady Catelyn’s hateful words in his face. She was right to keep her daughter away from him, and his father was wrong to think him as honorable as the Starks.

“Aye, but if you continue drinking Tormund’s goat milk, you won’t remember the night,” Jon said. _And this isn’t your last night_, his mind hissed. He knew it was likely _his_ last night, but Sansa would live. She had to. “Come, let us find Arya and Bran. Spend our last night with our family.”

“Oh, we shouldn’t disturb Arya–” Sansa suddenly snapped her mouth shut. She stood up, swaying so drastically that Jon reached forward to steady her. He kept his fingers at her hip, her skin burning like wildfire underneath his touch. She grinned up at him, and suddenly his heart was beating too loudly in his ears to hear anything but her soft voice. “But I would like to spend my last night with our pack. Come, let us find Bran.”

Her fingers skated up his arm before settling around his bicep, before she turned back to the group. “Each of you will live,” she said firmly, as though it wasn’t a question. “We will meet again once dawn has come.”

“Until the night begins,” Jon said by way of goodbye before walking towards the great hall’s exit. 

A soft flutter of snow had begun since they’d started the feast, but it had not stopped men and women from making the most of their possible last hours. Whenever someone approached them, Sansa spoke a few graceful words before the pair could continue. She somehow knew just what to say so that the approaching persons felt heard without wasting any words so that they could continue walking.

“You’re bringing me back to my chambers,” Sansa said after he maneuvered closer to the keep. “Bran is more likely to be in the godswood.”

“I know, but he won’t want to speak with us,” Jon said. Bran had insisted he needed to continue practice until the last possible moment, whatever that meant.

“So, you only meant to steal me for yourself,” Sansa said. When he turned to her, she turned away, her face suddenly flushed past what the drinks had reddened. “I’m surprised you’re not spending it with your queen. I’m sure she’s wondering where you are.”

“I’m spending my last hours exactly how I want,” Jon said, now his turn to look away as she studied him. He knew she didn’t come to the correct decision, though, because she didn’t run away. She wasn’t slapping him in the face, accusing him of being the bastard she always knew him to be. Bran insisted he couldn’t tell her the truth of his real parents yet, but it wouldn’t change anything. They had been raised as half-siblings. His feelings were disgusting. “Why did you say we shouldn’t disturb Arya?”

“If you don’t know, I can’t tell you,” Sansa said as they entered the keep. They walked past his chambers into hers. They were larger than anyone’s, the bed chambers that had once been Lady Catelyn’s the only room in the entire castle still empty. He would’ve taken them himself, if he was more confident in his ability to keep his unholy desires at bay. Still, it gave them the privacy that he now desired. “I would’ve thought you’d notice. You’ve always been so protective.”

“Protective?” Jon asked, suddenly alert. Why would he need to be protective unless she was in danger? “Sansa, tell me.”

“Don’t worry, Jon. She can protect herself better than any of us,” Sansa said. She knelt down to throw another wood into her dying hearth before settling into the chair that had once been her mother’s. With only brief hesitation, he sat in the one that had been their father’s. Because even if Rhaegar was his blood, Ned Stark was his father. “Besides, I don’t think her in any danger. She’s not the one more fallen along, and her loyalty to the pack is unrivaled.”

“Fallen a– do you mean to tell me that she’s with a _boy_?” Jon asked. Sansa’s silence spoke volumes, and he thought over the news. At first, anger sparked through him. For what boy could think him worthy of any of the Starks? But then he remembered what Arya had told him that first night. How she had spent her years sharpening herself to be the perfect weapon. He was glad that she would spend her last day knowing something else – something of happiness. “Alright then, I suppose it’s just us for the night. I hope that’s alright.”

Sansa blinked, looking confused. He hadn’t seen the expression on her before, and he thanked the ale for halting her ability to hide her thoughts and emotions so easily. He was glad, though, that he brought her away from more drinking, so that she could sober up before she had to be the Lady of Winterfell once more.

“What is it?” he asked when she continued to blink silently.

“It’s just – ah,” Sansa said, looking to her lap. She bit at her lip, and Jon was suddenly filled with the need to bite it for her. He tried to shut down the feeling, but she was looking entirely too much like an enchantress. Gone was her face of stone, and in her place a blushing maiden. “Whenever my potential matches are brought up, you always become so angry.”

“Aye, of course I do,” Jon said. He shot out of his chair so that he could pace about. He thought of the lesson she taught, to use one’s truth to sell a lie. Do not tell her the truth of his jealousy, but of something else. “You’ve been engaged and sold off to men who only deserved pain and death – not your hand, not your love. You should never again feel as though you need to marry to survive. I promised I would protect you, and I will. You will only marry when you want to. To whom you want.”

“I’m the Lady of Winterfell, Jon,” Sansa said. She had moved so silently that when her hand tugged at his shoulder, he jumped and grabbed for his blade, stopping as it gripped the hilt. “I’ve known that I would marry for the good of my people and not myself since I was a little girl. My fancies might’ve been too grand and naive, but the truth behind them still stands. Our house is one of the few great houses left. I will marry whoever will best benefit the future of the North. Not whom I want, but whom I and my people need.”

Jon let himself be turned around, her stern expression somewhere between the Lady of Winterfell and the expression he’d seen when she regarded Arya being difficult. “You shouldn’t have to. You’ve bled enough for your people,” he said.

She scoffed, moving to turn from him until his hand darted out, holding her in place by either hip. “I didn’t bleed for my people. I bled for _me_,” Sansa said, staring at his chin instead of meeting his eye. She was shaking underneath his grip, and he moved one of his hands to trace patterns on her back, hoping to calm her. “I let Littlefinger whisk me away from King’s Landing because I knew the only other choice was execution. I let Littlefinger promise me to a philandering stranger because I knew that his hand would gain me control in the Vale. I let Littlefinger instead wed me off to Ramsay Bolton because I knew that safety only exists in power. That I would only be safe again if I was the only one in control. I did everything for myself. Not my people. Not my family, whom I thought dead. For me. So, please, stop thinking me as honorable as Father or Robb or any Stark before us.”

“No, you’re smarter than them,” Jon said. She looked ashamed of her words, as though it was a sin to do what she needed to do to survive. “I’m glad you did what you had to, so that you could come back to me. I’d be in the south waiting to die if it wasn’t for you. I know what it’s like to make choices that you regret – that you wish you could change – but this isn’t about always making the honorable choice. It’s about making the _right_ choice. You did what you had to do to survive.”

Ned Stark had taught him that. He had lied to his best friend, to his wife, to everyone to keep Jon safe. Because he had promised his sister he would. And there was no higher honor than protecting one’s family.

“Stop making excuses for me,” Sansa said. Her hands pawed at his chest, trying to push herself away from him, but his grip only tightened. “I’m not like you. I’m not honorable. I’m not _good_. The south has poisoned me too much. It’s drowned out whatever honor I was birthed with. And you don’t even know the half of it. You don’t know how tainted my desires are even now, with my family again surrounding me.”

“I’m not making excuses for anyone,” Jon said, pulling her flush against him. She looked up at him, mouth parted open as her breast rose and fell. He did his best to ignore it – to ignore the way his blood ran south as he felt her chest against his own. “I’m not as honorable as you would have me. Far from it. But none of that matters now. All that matters–”

“Is the threat of the dead. I know, Jon. You’ve told me,” Sansa said. She gave up her pawing, instead gripping his tunic in her fists. “We’re together now, ready to fight against the threat. But if we survive – _when_ we survive – there will still be wars left to fight. And I will continue to do what I have to in order to keep our family safe.”

“I know you will,” he said, releasing one hand to caress her cheek. His action silenced her, red flooding to her cheeks once again. Before his mind could stop, it threw in his face the possibility that she might feel the same. That she not only hated Daenerys out of a foreigner seeking to claim their lands, but out of jealousy. But then reason gripped him once again, and his hand dropped back to her waist. “The North wouldn’t be united without you. If we weren’t, we would be dead already. You eliminated all other threats so that we could come to this moment united as one.”

“But you brought the dragons,” Sansa said, her head tipping forward to rest against his shoulder. “I’m sorry if I haven’t seemed grateful. I am. I know that if we survive, it’ll be because of all you sacrificed. I just– if we do survive, I don’t think I can do it. I can’t kneel to her, Jon. I can’t kneel to anyone.”

“She’ll kill you if you don’t,” Jon said. He knew his grip must be painful, be he couldn’t ease. His fear pumped through his veins too desperate to listen to anything. “She’ll burn you alive if you don’t proclaim her Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I know it’s the smart thing to do,” she said, her breath hot against him as she moved so that her lips almost brushed his neck. He cursed his bastard blood, for still getting riled even as they discussed such horrible things. “But I don’t know if I can. I think I would rather die than kneel to anyone ever again. I would rather burn than live a lifetime in fear.”

“Don’t speak that way,” Jon said, gripping her chin so that she looked up at him. Her eyes were more black than blue, but her chin quivered underneath him. “You have to survive.”

“For the North,” she said sadly.

“Aye, for the North. And for me,” he said. Her brows raised at his statement before grief again took hold over the surprise. What kind of man was he that she so doubted his affection? It was true that he had been more distant upon his return – for how could he not be when he had come to terms with his feelings? When he was terrified of anyone discovering his secret at every turning moment? – but did she really doubt his affection so much? “The Red Woman might’ve brought me back from the dead, but I was– I was never really alive, not until I saw you there. You gave me reason to live – to fight. Even if you did not mean to, you saved me. You saved your people. You saved everyone.”

“Stop it,” Sansa said, teetering between pushing him away and pulling him closer in her grip. “Stop being so understanding. Stop being so forgiving. You are too good–”

“Stop saying I’m good!” he exclaimed, trying to pull her closer even as there was already no space between them. His mind flew back to when Joffrey had first arrived at Winterfell. How he had already hated the lad, without even knowing of the horrible things he was capable of. It was not his death that has caused his wicked lust. Sinful love. He had felt such terrible feelings upon birth. “I’m not who you think I am. I’m–”

“You are a _Stark_,” Sansa said, now clear in only pulling him closer. He could feel her heart beating quickly against his own, her words warming him from head to toe despite the sins that flooded through his being. “It doesn’t matter who your mother was. You were Father’s son. You are a Stark as much as the rest of us.”

“I am not!” he said, pushing her from him and taking several steps back. She did not deserve his horrors, but she had to know the truth. Before he died tonight, she had to know the truth of who he was. “I am not a Stark! I am exactly what people expect of bastards. You lean on me as your brother – as your family – and yet I defile you in my thoughts. I love you, Sansa. Not as a brother should, but as a lover or husband. I’m as terrible as all the other men that you’ve trusted before me.”

Sansa stayed quiet, staring at him as he paced about. He couldn’t look at her as he walked past them back and forth. Couldn’t bare the disgust he knew he would see in her face.

“Do you tell the truth?” Sansa asked, much closer than he expected. She pulled at his hand, making him stop in his marching. She grabbed his face by either cheek, trying to force him to look at her even as he stared determinedly at the ceiling.

“Did you not just hear me? I’m in love with you. You need to stay away from–”

Sansa kissed him. Once, twice, three times until the taste of his ale was replaced by the taste of her. It took him a few seconds to realize what was happening, and another few to try to convince himself this was wrong. They were cousins in truth, but they weren’t raised that way. 

But he loved her, and she was kissing him.

Jon’s hand wound through her red Tully locks before answering her kiss with thrice the fervor. She hummed appreciatively, and the sound shot right to his cock. They molded together, fitting against one another with startling perfection. She melted into him, her mouth opening to his. Their tongues met in the middle for the briefest instance– 

The horn sounded through the castle, making the both of them jump apart. She looked about as surprised as he felt, but she gathered her wits about her quicker as she smoothed out her skirt. “They must be closer than we expected, for you to leave so early,” she said.

“Aye,” he said, his voice gruff as he tried to think of something – of anything – to say.

Sansa stepped forward, her stretched palm placed over his heart. “You will survive, Jon. I know you think your story ends tonight, but it doesn’t. I won’t allow it. You will live, and we will figure this all out together. Do you hear me?”

As Jon looked at her, he knew she was right. He would survive, not for himself, but for his family. For her. He had bent the knee to save them but had created a mess in the process. He would not take the coward’s exit and leave them to pick up the pieces of his choices. He would protect them for as long as the gods let him.

Sansa had not told him that she loved him back, but he would kill a thousand wights if it meant the chance to kiss her again. 

“I’m yours to command.”


	20. Daenerys

When the horn blared, Daenerys jumped from her chair and marched towards the south gate. Finally, it was time to show these Northerners all that she was capable of. No matter that their foolish warden hadn’t found her. She could feel her children answering her call. They’d be waiting for the both of them, as fire-hungry as she felt.

The Northerners and Wildlings were all hurrying north, jumping on horses and galloping out of the castle. They would be the ones to first see her fight. Perhaps the only ones, if she managed to kill the Night King before they returned to the castle.

The rest of the castle was bidding them farewell, not due to their own positions for another near two hours. The Unsullied and Dothraki she passed bowed or shouted in battle cries, but not a single Westerosi looked her way. Were they too busy saying goodbye to their loved ones to thank the one who would save them?

Jon was already waiting for her when she reached the gate. “Your Grace,” he greeted before turning to match her stride. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to you–”

“Now is not the time for excuses,” she said, shooting him one of her best glares before looking back to her children. “Now is the time to kill the king that think he has a right over my people.”

Both of her surviving children landed in front of them, the force from their wings sending the snow flying to reveal the dead grass below. She watched Jon as fear took over his face, blending with the determination. Knowing this could be their last moment together, she temporarily put aside her pride and moved in front of him, grabbing him by the back of his neck with either hand. She pulled him in for a kiss, enjoying the way his pulse quickened beneath her touch. The way his body shook with need for her.

“Now then, shall we begin?”

Jon nodded, and they both moved to either dragon. Her children screeched, feeding off her own pounding adrenaline. They looked to one another before taking off, and she wondered yet again if this was the last time that she would see him. He had only flown with her a few times. Rhaegal would keep him safe in the skies, but she had had a nightmare the night before. Of him falling to the ground and disappearing to the snow below.

Together, they took off towards to the north. They would reach the army before the others, burn as many as they could to steal the Night King’s attention. Distract him and try to pull him east, away from the others where he couldn’t command his army. If that failed and they were brought back to the castle, burn as many of the wights down below. Kill him the second they had the chance. And no matter what, keep her children away from those blasted spears that had taken her precious Viserion away from her.

Cheers sounded from below them, and she relished in them. Good. Let them see her for who she truly was. She let their love fuel her into the night.

Soon, their hails were whisked away by the winds. She looked back to see the lights of the castle disappearing into a small dot before disappearing all together behind the falling snow. She enjoyed the quiet of the skies, made for no one but her and her children. Even with Jon beside her, he was in _her_ domain. The Night King might’ve stolen Viserion, but he was a small man. And he would die like every man before him.

“Down below!” Jon shouted beside her. She looked over to see him cupping his mouth with one hand while the other desperately held onto Rhaegal’s horned back. “The army is below us!”

Daenerys peered over Drogon’s back until she could see what he was talking about. It was difficult in the complete darkness to see much of anything. The whiteness of the snow was their only aide, the only reason she noticed the army at all was the mass of black against the black – moving southward. She goaded Drogon down, and Jon followed her descent. 

“Dracarys!”

Drogon and Rhaegal, ever faithful, opened their mouths and their flames roared through the air before scorching their enemies down below. She grinned as the fire shredded through the dead, their high-pitched screams echoing around in the night.

Within a minute, they heard a screech come from the darkness. Her heart twisted as though a knife sliced through it at the familiar sound. It was higher – more ghostly – but she would recognize Viserion anywhere. She looked through the darkness, needing to see what the Night King had done to her child. 

Two blue orbs floated towards them. She thought it a trick of the light until suddenly blue fire lit up his mouth, and she saw the undead face of Viserion just before the flames spiraled towards her. Drogon spun them out of the way, the blue fire lighting up the sky around them. Jon was one step ahead of her, having not been the target of the blast, and his orange fire combatted the blue as he chased after the Night King.

Blinding rage replaced her grief, her entire being heating as though they were back in the Red Waste rather than the North. Drogon felt her fury, and his fire shot through the wights below. He stopped just as quickly, sensing his mother’s plan.

Daenerys dipped underneath them, hoping to catch them by surprise. She watched them combatting above her, but just as Drogon opened his snout once again, Viserion’s wings closed. He spiraled downward until he passed her, nearly slamming into the ground before opening his wings at the last second. His ethereal fire spiraled towards them, Drogon maneuvering out of its path at the last moment. 

The tips of the flames spiked across her skin, making her freeze. What was this? She had only ever felt a numbness to fire, never heat. Never pain.

Rhaegal’s pained cry tore her out of her head, and she looked up to see that Viserion had latched himself to his brother’s underbelly. The two soared higher and higher as they bit and clawed at one another. 

She was helpless to do much of anything, for her fire would surely hit Rhaegal, too. But she would not let anyone steal her glory on the battlefield. Not even Jon. So, she forced Drogon closer and waited until Viserion’s back was to her. As soon as she found her moment, Drogon lurched forward to claw at his wings.

But the Night King was faster than she expected. He flung Rhaegal into Drogon, sending them both plummeting to the ground as they tried to untangle from one another.

As soon as they were, Jon yelled, “Keep his eyes to the sky! They won’t stand a chance!”

Daenerys looked down to see flickers of fire taking over the sheet of white. The Northmen and Wildlings had reached the army half a mile to the south, and she watched as their fiery arrows flying at the army like mosquitoes biting a beast.

“Dany!” Jon cried.

She followed his voice to see him desperately trying to flame Viserion above her to the east. She cursed herself for being so easily distracted and chased after them.

Every time Daenerys and Jon tried to force the Night King more east, he would push just as hard to the south. For every failed attempt to bite or burn him, her rage soared.

How dare he turn _her_ child against her? How dare he use him to try to take over _her_ kingdoms?

All men must die, and it would be by her hand.


	21. Torgo Nudho

The horns blew twice, signaling wights coming to the west where he and the Dothraki waited. It was followed first by two blue lanterns (signaling he and his men) being moved up and down, followed by two red lanterns (signaling the Dothraki) that crossed one another. 

“_Load_!” Torgo Nudho shouted. His men moved with efficient speed, loading the catapults and lighting their stones quickly.

“_Aim_!” Again, the men adjusted the catapults, moving them more tightly, as to not hit the Dothraki when it was their time.

“_Fire_!” The catapults swung, sending the flaming stones flinging into the woods. When they crashed into the trees, the sound of high-pitched screams echoed. Torgo Nudho did not wait, looking back to his men as he shouted again, “_Load_!”

The Dothraki cavalry screamed their battle cry before two squadrons split into two lines and encircled the wolfswood, overly eager for their turn to slaughter the dead. The smith boy had made many of them arakh of dragonglass, and the night before they had taken over the camps in their barbaric way, laying with their women out in the open as they swung their new weapons in the air. Now, they disappeared into the forest, using the pincer move that Jon Snow had suggested.

“_Aim_!”

The horns blew three times, signaling the wights were targeting the south gate where the rest of his men the Dothraki guarded. He could not let himself be distracted. The sounds of snapping twigs and rustling of bushes announced the wights were nearing them. 

“_Fire_!”

The horns blew four times, signaling the wights were attacking the east gate where the Dornish shielded, aided by the pits of dragonglass. 

“_Load_!”

All at once, wights jumped from the trees. They were a raging flood, smacking into the phalanx like a river against a dam. His men grunted but held their ground, men in the second row slicing through the small slots to kill what wights the first one’s spears missed. 

“_Aim_!”

His men were forced back a step, their heels digging into the snow. More and more wights pushed against them, a dozen Dothraki coming back from the forest to slice through them from behind. Torgo Nudho watched helplessly as they were dragged from their horses, falling into the ocean of wights as their horses squealed as their riders were slaughtered. His blood pounded between his ears, the air thinning as he watched how easily the dead killed the fierce savages.

“_Fire_!”

The dead breached the line to the south, the men to the closest catapult hurrying to try to take over his fallen soldiers’ places. For every man that reached the line, another three fell. The wights pounced atop them, tearing them apart limb by limb. The image of Missandei falling to their terror flashed before his eyes before he could stop it. The cold froze his lungs, the horrific scene blurring around him.

“_Load_!”

His men finally managed to replace the hole, but they had lost too much ground. They were but two yards from the catapults now. Dozens of his men already fallen, the phalanx only still full due to them having fallen back into a sharper line.

“_Aim_!”

Fear gripped at his heart, and not for the first time he cursed his love of Missandei. He did not like this fear. Hated that he was scared of death – for who would protect her in his absence? If he fell, only their queen would watch over her, but she had brought them on a path of never-ending war. What guarantee did he have that Missandei would be safe?

“_Fire_!”

As the rocks flung through the forest, his men’s heels hit the front of the catapults. Jon Snow had told them that the undead army was greater than any the world had seen, but he had not listened. Not enough. He had not seen them failing this quickly. He had not seen them failing at all.

“_Spears at ready_!” he shouted as the men fell back around the catapults. The dead jumped atop the weapons, the wood whining before collapsing. They used the weapons as entry between his men, and those who had been manning them speared them through the head and heart.

There were too many of them. His men fell one by one then two by two.

“_Fall back_!” he yelled. “_Protect the gate_!”

The men shifted. Every time they took a step back, the men along the wall hurried back to the gate. But the dead moved too quickly. There were too many of them.

As his last men fell into line at the gate, he looked up to see two Northmen disappear to the other side of the bridge over the gate. Oil spilled over the thin snow, the smell nauseating as it mixed with the stench of death. 

The Northmen threw a torch over the oil. It sparked to life like a roaring dragon, and the dead screeched as they fell to the flames.

Still, they did not give up. They piled one over the other until they were a mountain of corpses, suffocating the fire. It slowed them down but not enough. The dead jumped over their fallen comrades, screaming as they jumped to the gate with flaming limbs.

His men waited for them, spearing one after the other as they dove towards the gate. But as the mountain of the fallen grew higher, the dead grew more desperate. He didn’t have enough men. There were too many of them.

“We won’t be able to win this in the field,” Jon Snow had said. “All we can do out there is win enough time to kill the Night King. He’s the only one that matters.”

Torgo Nudho moved forward, heart pounding furiously against his chest. He stabbed and swung his spear around with ease.

Suddenly, it was as if the wights sensed he was the commander, for suddenly they all began to target him. His men noticed, and they hurried to form a half circle with him at the front point.

The fire hissed before being snuffed out in the center, and Torgo Nudho watched in horror as a man with skin as white as snow and eyes blazing blue as a clear sky walked through. The fire breathed back to life as soon as he stepped through, wights screaming in agony as they tried and failed to follow his steps. 

This was one of the commanders Jon Snow had said control the armies. Killing him would kill hundreds if not thousands of the wights at once.

The man looked around the castle slowly before his glowing eyes settled on Torgo Nudho. He unsheathed a greatsword made of ice, his intent clear.

Torgo Nudho stepped out of the line of his men, swinging his spear around as he re-centered himself. Wights still targeted him from the sides, but he trusted his men to guard him. He would not waste the chance the great goddess gave him.

_All men must die._


	22. Arya

Arya moved with all the grace that the Many Faced God had taught her, swinging her double-bladed spear at any wight that managed to climb the castle and jump over its moat that lay between its tall walls. She closed her eyes as she danced about, not wanting to depend on the nearly-there lights that could easily trick her. Instead relying only on what No One had taught her. To fight blind and trust her instincts. It was as if all of her training had prepared her for this very moment.

The sounds of dragons screeching took over the skies, flashes of orange and blue lighting against her eyelids. Still, she did not look up. That was not her battle. Hers was here, stopping any wights that might try to climb into the godswood and kill her brother.

She heard the grunts of the Hound and Ser Beric to her either side, killing whatever wights she might miss.

The walls grew heavy as more and more wights reached the chemin de ronde. She opened her eyes only briefly to look around and see that they were flooding this wall more than any other. The Night King must’ve seen or sensed her brother and wanted a clear path.

Arya closed her eyes again, quickening the steps of her dance. The bodies of the wights she killed fell over the wall into the woods below, and she twirled to the spaces they had vacated.

The Red Woman’s words echoed in her ears. Both the first time they met and earlier that night.

_I see a darkness in you._ _And in that darkness, eyes staring back at me. Brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes. Eyes you'll shut forever._

_Do you remember what I said to you all that time ago? The Red God has trained you to be his weapon. To fight in the shadows his light cast. To be the prince’s last shield in the darkness you know so well._

A wight bit into her arm, and she cried out before slamming her spear through its eye socket. What an idiot, to let herself be distracted by empty words. She kicked the building pile corpses down below, splashing into the frozen moat’s waters to give herself more room to move.

Arya suddenly realized that there were far less wights attacking them. She twirled again, eyes now wide open, killing the last half dozen surrounding her with every step she took. She looked about to see that they had moved on to climb over the wall by the glass gardens instead.

“Shit!” she cursed. The Northmen had returned from attacking the army in open fields, and she breathed in relief as they began to take their posts over the wall. Without another word, she darted towards the glass gardens.

She did not realize that the Hound and Ser Beric had followed her until they reached the turret.

“Stark!” Ser Beric shouted as she skidded to a stop on the north-facing wall. 

The glass of the gardens had shattered below them where wights had jumped, and she saw several running through the trees. She could only hope that the fighters who were stationed hidden amongst the trees could stop them. Bringing her attention back to the wall, Arya saw Mormont soldiers had taken over the wall from the other side. She met them in the middle before beginning again to strike down the never-ending flood of wights.

“Drop the oil!” someone shouted.

Arya looked around, confused, until she saw a barrel of oil sitting on the edge of the wall. She pushed through the attacking wights, heart nearly stopping as she saw just how many of the dead were racing towards her home. Their black silhouettes covered the snow as far as she could see in the blanket of night.

The barrel was heavy, and she had to risk putting down her weapon to use all her strength to push the barrel over the edge. Three other barrels were pushed over the edge, coating the climbing wights and the ground in with the smelly liquid. A Mormont soldier threw a torch, and the entire wall lit up in flames. Now with the light to aide her, she could see where the wights had completely clogged the pits of dragonglass, the dead stomping over the piles without losing any speed.

Arya screamed as a wight suddenly tore at her already injured arm, whipping her back so her head smacked against the stone. Her vision teetered between blurs and blacks, and she desperately felt around for her spear. Another white grabbed her by the leg, and another by her arm. Her entire body burned as they dragged her in opposite directions, her spine screaming as it bent to their wills.

Suddenly her left arm was free, and she looked around for her spear, seeing it just out of her reach. Tears blurred over her vision as she kicked at the wight still holding onto her leg as she tried to reach the weapon.

She heard Ser Beric grunt over her, and then she was free. She lurched for her weapon and forced herself to her feet. Her vision winked black again as she swayed on her feet, fresh blood warming her attacked arm and leg.

Ser Beric was standing on one side of her. The wights tried to jump around him, seeming to want to kill her instead of him. She swayed again as movement to her left caught her eye. More and more wights were making it over the wall.

“Go!” Ser Beric shouted, desperately swinging through the army of wights as they piled more and more. “Save your brother!”

She looked to him, and then to the Hound behind him, both fighting half a dozen wights at once. The dead had resorted to crushing the men under the weight of them, and the sight froze her to the bones.

“No!” Arya said, slicing through another wave of wights. She would not listen to them. She would not let them die so that she could do what Arya Stark wanted to do. It would’ve been better if she had stayed No One. Then she would not be so desperate to protect her brother instead of the wall, where she was needed most. “We need men here!”

“Stop being a stubborn little cunt!” the Hound shouted as he flung a wight back over the wall. “You’ll die up here. If your brother dies, we all do!”

The sight of an undead men stole her retort from her mouth. He looked different than the others. Not a mindless beast, but calm and intelligent. A white walker.

She didn’t even hesitate, whipping past the Hound to attack the commander. He evaded her blows, but she could dodge his just as easily. He fought like Jon, and once more she closed her eyes. This time a phantom music floated in her ears, and she used its tune to evade and attack. And just as the song ended, she made her killing blow, her spear shattering through his neck, and all of the wights fighting around them fell to the floor lifeless once more.

Before Arya had time to celebrate, she heard a strangled grunt of someone behind her. She turned around to see Ser Beric standing not a foot away, a black spear protruding through his chest, the tips inches from her heart. He collapsed to his knees, revealing another white walker standing behind him, his undead face twisted in a scowl. He unsheathed a sword of ice from his waist, but the Hound stepped in between them.

Blood dripped from his mouth, Ser Beric pulled back her attention. “The lone wolf dies. Go, now, before the flying wolf loses his wings.”

Arya looked between him and the Hound one more time before turning around and jumping over the wall.

_What do we say to the god of death?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized I never made the official announcement, but I will be updating on Saturdays instead of my originally stated Wednesdays... I can't promise it will be every week, but I will try my damned best!
> 
> Also, I know there are so many terrible things going on right now and many people resisting necessary steps we need to take to create a world of love and equality. I must admit I was blind to how much hate still existed in this world, particularly my own country (USA)... I didn't even realize that I wasn't protected against discrimination in the work force until just this month... so my message is simple:
> 
> Black Lives Matter  
Trans Rights are Human Rights  
Love is Love


	23. Missandei

The sounds of fighting steadily grew louder as the army of the dead breeched the castle. Missandei took a deep breath. _Torgo Nudho is safe. He is a true warrior. He has the strength to defend himself. He will not die._

No matter how many times she repeated the words in her head, her heartbeat continued to quicken until it was pounding in her skull. She looked around the large room that was packed with women and children. They were on the second story with the ladies and their heirs too young to fight (and Lord Tyrion and Varys), with the first floor of the Great Keep being taken over by the elderly and whoever else couldn’t fit upstairs.

She sat with Lady Sansa, who had invited all of the queen’s counsel to sit in her small circle to pray. Kinvara was the only one who did not partake, anger taking over the Red Woman as the Lady of Winterfell refused to pray to anyone but her old gods. So Kinvara had left them to loudly chant the Lord of Light’s words, promising them that the queen was the princess that was promised. That her children were fire made flesh. That Drogon was Lightbringer. That she would kill the Night King and save them all.

Lord Tyrion was walking around with bread and honey, offering it to every child. Lord Varys was moving around, listening to everyone without inserting himself in any of the conversations.

“And what about you, Lady Missandei?” Lady Sansa asked. She must’ve gathered from her expression that she hadn’t been listening, for she smiled that half-smile common for the Starks and said, “I hear the foods and drinks in Essos are different from everywhere else in the world. What is your favorite?”

“My favorite?” she asked, confused why the lady would be asking her something so trivial.

“Yes, I hope we can put something together for the celebration feast, to celebrate the victory our brave men and women will win us tonight,” Lady Sansa said, her already sharp features somehow made even sharper in the few flickering torches. They had not wanted to bring too much attention to the keep, hoping the wights would instead attack the vacated parts of the castle. “Mine are lemon cakes, but we unfortunately lost any lemons that might’ve been brought North from the Reach.”

“The Reach… they pledged themselves to House Lannister,” Missandei said, thinking back on the lessons of the kingdoms from Lord Tyrion. What houses from the fruitful kingdom that had pledged to their queen underneath Lady Tyrell had fallen back to the Lannisters after they lost their ally in the Battle of the Goldroad. “So, they do not feed you?”

“Well, yes, and – oh, never the mind. Now is not the time,” Sansa said suddenly, turning from her back to one of the children. “What is your favorite dessert, little one?”

“Black bean brownies!” the boy said excitedly, bouncing on his mother’s lap. “Oh! And blackberry muffins!”

The boy continued to talk excitedly to the group, telling them about all of the desserts he hoped to eat once the wars were over and they no longer had to ration.

“Lady Sansa,” Missandei said, edging closer to her so that her whisper wouldn’t disturb the other’s conversation, “Why will the Reach not feed your people?”

The lady swallowed, looking uncomfortable as she smoothed her skirts. She kept her head down and voice low when she responded, “The grains and fruits were burned.”

“But why were they–” Missandei froze when she realized the only person who would burn anything. She studied the lady. Had she brought this up on purpose? But no, Lady Sansa looked as uncomfortable as she felt. It must’ve happened when Queen Daenerys had attacked the Lannister army. “But surely we can steal the food from the enemy.”

“Casterly Rock was emptied of their storages before the Unsullied attacked. Everything was brought back to King’s Landing,” Lady Sansa explained quietly. Missandei remembered hearing the same from Torgo Nudho when he met up with them back in King’s Landing after taking the castle. “We can perhaps trade with Riverrun once we reclaim it. But they could only provide fish, which are hard to catch with winter coming so there will only be enough left to feed their own kingdom. The same for the Stormlands. But come, we shouldn’t talk about such things. Let’s walk about the room. Be the light for anyone who needs it.”

Together, they stood up. Lord Tyrion looked happy to see the Lady of Winterfell so openly walking with her, but Lord Varys looked suspicious. He had once told her that Lady Sansa was a great player in the game, but she could not see it. She only saw a woman who was slow to trust anyone, and definitely an excellent lady of her keep, but not conniving in the way she had seen from Lords Varys and Tyrion. The lady easily joined most conversations and even attempted to stumble through what little Dothraki and Valyrian she had learned when they reached their women. The Dothraki women were as rough as their men, and they all laughed at her failed attempts. But it was not an unkind laugh, for even they had heard of the strength of the woman standing before them.

Once they had walked about the top floor, Lady Sansa led her down the stairs to the first floor. The elderly had formed a circle, with their mouths all moving in quiet prayer. What women and children were there had formed circles of their own, but most of the children were fighting their mothers and trying to play different games.

The sound of a dragon’s screech rumbled through the building, and everyone cowered as they looked up at the ceiling as if waiting for it to break through.

Lady Sansa’s eyes had reduced to slit, and she held up a hand for Missandei to stay in place as she crept towards one of the only three doors that hadn’t been sealed. Missandei continued forward with her, despite the lady’s command, and watched silently as she pressed her ear against the door.

Suddenly, her eyes widened, and she spun to her people just as the door rattled behind her. “Everyone upstairs! Quickly!”

No one questioned her orders, and screams broke out through the room as they all stampeded up the stairs, pushing into one another as they all tried to be the ones to make it up first.

“Go! Upstairs! Now!” Lady Sansa said, pushing at Missandei before removing a small dragonglass dagger from her skirts.

Missandei hesitated only for a moment before following everyone else up the stairs. But then some Wildling women pushed past her, small swords of dragonglass clutched tightly in their hands. Not everyone could fit upstairs, so Missandei could only get halfway up the stairs. She turned around to see Lady Sansa standing in the middle of the line of Wildlings, even from this far visibly shaking as she held up her dagger.

The door banged open, and three wights ran into the room. Lady Sansa screamed as one jumped at her, falling back with it atop her. One of the Wildings tore it off of her, seeing it already dead with the lady’s dagger in its stomach, as the others attacked the remaining two.

Overcome with something she couldn’t explain, Missandei grabbed the torch lighting the path to the stairs and ran back down. Another few wights darted in the room, and she pushed past the Wildlings to throw the torch at them. The beasts screeched as it hit two of their outstretched arms. Missandei grabbed for the torch’s handle again, whimpering as it burnt against her flesh, before slamming it into another.

One of the Wildling woman screamed as a wight tore her arm clean off its socket, her blood spurting over them as she fell, convulsing as she gripped at the wound. Lady Sansa grabbed the fallen woman’s dragonglass sword and gave it to Missandei before jumping over the fallen bodies to close the door once more.

“Help me!” she said as the door shook. Another dragon roared above them as Missandei and the Wildling women all pushed all of their weight against the door.

“Red Wolf,” one of them said through gritted teeth. “Go upstairs. We need you alive!”

Missandei remembered her queen’s words from earlier that day…_ And if the Lady of Winterfell falls in the fight to come, well, then the dead have saved me from losing Jon. He would never forgive me for killing her, but she _must_ die, if we are to ever win the North’s affections._

“I will not sit back and be a bystander to tragedy,” Lady Sansa said, grunting as she slipped slightly on the blood that now covered the floor. Her dress had torn at the top of her sleeve, blood in the shape of a bite dampening her shoulder. “Let them say that the Lady of Winterfell died protecting her people!”

“Who will protect us if you and the King Crow die?” the woman insisted.

“He won’t die,” Lady Sansa said, her word cracking on the last word. “House Stark will protect you should we fall. The North will protect you.”

The door stopped shaking, but none of the women eased their weight off of it. Someone must’ve seen the entrance was unguarded on the outside and taken over protecting them.

Suddenly Missandei felt very dizzy, and she fell on the ground. One of the women cried out, kneeling before her.

“You were bit,” the woman said.

Missandei looked down to see her own arm was completely soaked in red. Strange, she hadn’t felt anything.

Lady Sansa ripped her already torn sleeve and knelt down in front of her. She wrapped it painfully tight as close to the shoulder as she was able. “We need to cut off circulation,” she explained. “You’re not allowed to die, Lady Missandei. Do you hear me?”

“All men must die,” she replied as she accepted the Wildling woman’s hand to pull her back to standing.

“Yes, but not today,” Lady Sansa said, leaning back to listen to the door as she kept her gaze. “Death would be too easy. The gods are not done with us yet.”

Missandei stared at her, being at loss for words, but then the door rattled again. As she pushed all of her weight on keeping it closed, surrounded so closely by the women who would not bend, she thought her queen wrong. If the Lady of Winterfell was to die, then the North would die with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th of July everyone!


	24. Bran/Three-Eyed Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So sorry for my delay in update... I have a medical condition and did a medicine swap that really messed with me. But last week I got on MUCH better medicine and am back to my almost normal! That will hopefully mean I can do weekly updates, unless life gets in the way again. Hope you are all safe and healthy!

“They’re here,” Theon Greyjoy said. The trees blocked their sight of the walls, but the sounds of screams answered what they could not see. The other fighters had been out in the woods killing the stray wights that made it past the treeline, but several of the men had already fallen, and so several of them had retreated to him to act as his final defense. Three men now stood in a loose triangle around him, although he would only need one to hold off the Night King long enough.

The Three-Eyed Raven turned to the Dornish man and the cutthroat, both gruesomely injured. The Dornish lord’s leather armor was ripped in the side, blood soaking his torso from the deep bite marks. The cutthroat was moving with a limp, his hip popping every time he moved from when a wight had had nearly torn his leg from its socket when he had been hiding up in a tree. “Go to your ladies. They need you now.”

Lord Ladybright looked surprised as he looked around at the rest of them. “My place is here. I will not abandon my post.”

“We do not need you here,” they said. Bronn Blackwater did not need to be told twice, and he took off towards the eastern exit without another word between them. He would reach the Great Keep’s door in time, the dragon queen too absorbed in her battle with the Night King to see how desperately the defenseless needed her. The women were strong, but not strong enough to prevent themselves from becoming soldiers in the Night King’s army. The other man shuffled, although he was disturbed by the Three-Eyed Raven, none of them believed in these legends, wouldn’t fully until they saw for their own eyes. They were not like Bran Stark, the boy who always believed in what he couldn’t see. They looked back to Lord Ladybright. It was not that they didn’t think it possible – the undead army around them had shattered that defense – but that they were terrified of the thought of someone who could see all of their secrets should they so choose. They chose not to believe in it because it made them feel safer. “She needs you. Go to her, before it’s too late.”

The man looked around one more time before finally listening, running off to defend the only woman he’d truly loved.

“I am needed,” they said.

Without waiting to hear what Theon Greyjoy said, they sought out the presence of Viserion. They had only practiced taking over Rhaegal and Drogon, not wanting to practice with Viserion to alert the Night King of his plan. Although it was likely that the undead king had already guessed it, if not seeing it in a vision.

Their opponent could see much. His magic was stronger than their own in many ways, seeing the future’s possibilities with his magic rather than being forced to rely on educated guesses. He was a master of the darkness, but it was his overconfidence in his realm of magic that they were counting on. They knew the Night King had looked into Jon’s future a thousand different times. Sansa Stark and Elia Dayne’s as well, for a common guess would be that they are a part of the prophecy. 

They were the three people that they were sure captured the Night King’s attention. Perhaps the other puppet masters, too. Varys. Tyrion Lannister. But their uses had been minimalized to nothing during the battle. His interest in Lady Melisandre and Ser Davos Seaworth, smoke and salt, had also likely decreased since their part in the prophecy had come to an end once Jon was reborn.

Jon… He was without a doubt the prince that was promised. He had to pierce his sword through his heart, but his love for Sansa Stark was unparalleled. And he was born under the protection of House Dayne’s sword, the bleeding star. 

The Three-Eyed Raven found the undead dragon quickly, their vision blinking in and out as Viserion resisted his grip. The beast screeched as his head shook, trying to shake him out of his head, but they were stronger.

As they settled into the new body, their vision still warped as the dragon continued to fight against them, they could feel the Night King like ice against their back. They knew he could feel their magic, and he instantly pulled out his spear with the intent to pierce them through. He would try to injure them enough to force them to lose their grip but not kill them. He didn’t want to kill his dragon, and that gave them the advantage.

But it was not their part to kill the king. That could only be accomplished by the prince that was promised.

The Three-Eyed Raven had a different part to play, and they had to focus. They grabbed complete control of Viserion just as Drogon’s jaw clamped shut on his neck. They threw him off, scrabbling away from Rhaegal whose claws sliced along their belly. The Night King was resisting their magic as he battled, the split attention likely the only thing helping them stay in control.

They knew that they were weaker. They knew that eventually the Night King would land in the godswood, likely after players he deemed too risky were killed down below. They had to take away his advantage.

The moment they were free, they plummeted towards the castle, fighting the mental pull from the Night King trying to take back command the beast. When they reached the eastern gate, they let Drogon slam into them, the castle walls collapsing beneath them. The destruction rang through the castle like rumbling thunder, screams echoing as they watched the mighty beasts wrestled back into the air.

They had taken the king by surprise, and he plummeted into the rubble below. Any pain they should’ve felt was numbed from the dragon’s undead state. Still, smoke clogged the air as the castle’s wreckage settled into a pile of ruin, blocking their vision.

The whole ordeal happened far quicker than they had expected, and they twisted the dragon’s long neck just in time to see the Night King’s spear slice through Drogon’s underbelly. 

They flew away from the horrific scene, feeling their grip on the dragon slipping. They flew right for Jon on Rhaegal, bowing their head down as they reached him.

They jumped from Viserion’s mind just as they felt Rhaegal’s mouth clamp on their neck. The beast’s wings continued to flutter until it fell to the ground, before its brother’s fire overtook the undead beast all at once.

They jumped into the mind of a wolf, watching as Nymeria tore into the giant spiders. The undead beasts could not die without fire or dragonglass, but they were as good as dead without their legs. They saw what was left of the Unsullied around the castle’s gate through the trees, the soldiers confused but relieved to see the wolves on their side. The pack had come from the west, and they were fighting their way into the castle under the command of the Stark direwolf.

The Three Eyed Raven charged the giant spider closest to the gate, the creature intent on killing the Unsullied Commander. They ripped its legs from underneath it so that he could stab through its hundreds of eyes. Torgo Nudho looked at them, seeing the intelligence in their white eyes and nodding in thanks before turning to continue defending against the dead.

When it was time, they jumped into Rhaegal and flew to the godswood, hovering low where Jon could clearly see the body of Bran Stark and Theon Greyjoy below. He cried out, likely seeing Theon Greyjoy fighting off wights, before they lowered Rhaegal so that they could make the fall short into the snow below. Bran Stark’s cousin was a natural born dragon rider, but his limited experience still left him clumsy, and he fell once they twisted the dragon nearly upside down.

Rhaegal pushed again them harder than before, angry that they had lost Jon. But Bran Stark still had to play his endgame. The dragon queen had again took to the skies, her pull on the beast even stronger than the Night King’s had been on Viserion. But they had practiced. And the Three-Eyed Raven and Bran Stark played to win.

Needing the moments to align and knowing they were moving too quickly, they flew back out towards the north, where the wights were at their thickest. They opened their large snout, setting the dead ablaze with dragon fire. They flew east and then back west, continuing their assault just far enough from the castle to not set it anymore afire.

When it was time, they landed Rhaegal on the shambles of what was once the armory. They looked about quickly, realizing they had overestimated how much time they had. Their pacing never balancing where they wanted, fear began to prick against the back of their neck like a cold blanket. 

Finally spotting one of their pieces but still not the other, they scanned through the present until they saw that No One hadn’t done what they had expected. Very well, so long as she was in place. They jumped back into the air, swooping lowly to grab Princess Elia Dayne. She screamed underneath him as they flew them to the godswood, before they dropped her unceremoniously at the foot of the heart tree.

All their pieces now in place, they returned back to their own body.

The Night King was there with twelve of his best white walkers. What was left of Bran Stark cried as he watched him choke the life out of Theon Greyjoy before tossing him to the side. All past grievances forgotten as he looked at the corpse of his once brother.

Elia Dayne stood up just as Arya Stark emerged from the trees. They looked at each other, and then to the oncoming dead commanders. They did not yet see Jon coming from behind the heart tree.

“You take the six on the left; I’ll take the six on the right?” the Sword of the Morning said as she shifted into her defensive stance.

Arya Stark of Winterfell tossed her spear between both hands as she studied the group. “And the Night King?”

“Him we’ll share,” Elian Dayne said, appearing to not notice the way her blood already stained the snow beneath her.

Having made their final move, the Three-Eyed Raven only hoped it would all be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I'm not very happy with this chapter. Bran is always a tricky POV. I wanted to show Nymeria and giant spiders fighting (because really D&D, no elephants OR direwolves OR giant spiders?!) as well as setting up a few other "players", but it didn't come out how I wanted it to. Still, I know it's been a couple weeks since I've uploaded, and the gist of what I wanted to happen is there, so I figured I'd go ahead and give you all the update even if it's not perfect


	25. Elia

When Elia had learned the army of the dead strong enough to kill a dragon, she thought she had understood their might. Only when it was too late had she understand how much she had truly underestimated them. They had lost the eastern gate within thirty minutes, and the wights had swamped through the small courtyard like a disease.

Her guards stationed outside the Great Keep had perished only twenty minutes after that, and she had to constantly keep an eye to make sure no wights were targeting the door. Shouting for man after man to take his post there. She was stuck leading the mostly collapsed phalanxes that had fallen back against the two western walls. The small courtyard had three passageways that led closer to the godswood: two south towards the Courtyard, and one towards the North Gate. She had positioned herself in between them, her back to the armory, as she yelled her commands over the screams.

Then the darkness had been replaced by lights of blue and orange as the dragons started to dominate the air in their own battle. Every time the ghost dragon dove for the ground, Drogon or Rhaegal would snatch at his wings or neck and pull him back up.

Now, as she swung, turned, and twisted to kill any wights that made it through the gaps, Elia was glad that she had managed to sneak two swords of dragonglass. She had disagreed with Jon that ‘one man could make all the difference’ applied to _everyone_ so she had waited until the weapons were being passed out to the ‘soldiers’ who had were just mastering the basics before stealing the second. Her small rebellion had been worth it.

Fire started to spread through the dead grass, the melted snow doing nothing to slow down its blazing wrath. The flames were both a blessing and a curse, slowing down her men just as much as it slowed the wights. She did her best to ignore the dozens of her soldiers laying lifeless on the ground but still her heart turned to stone, weighing her down.

A dragon’s pained cry stole her attention, and she looked up to see Drogon plummeting right towards her. Elia cursed as she shoved off a wight, pushing through the wall of undead as she tried to get away. They bit and clawed at her, but she had a better chance than them against–

Drogon smacked into the armory, caving it in. The ground shook with the force of it, people’s screams echoing it like thunder. Something small but hard hit her back, and suddenly she was falling to the ground. She grunted as she skid in the snow, something managing to bite her before she stood back up and cut her sword through the week joint in its neck. 

The armory was in ruins. Drogon was floundering around like a fish out water, and she couldn’t see the queen. 

“Your Grace!” Elia shouted. Three more wights broke free of the phalanxes, and she cut and stabbed at them with a renewed adrenaline. Suddenly, the phalanx was being overwhelmed, as if the entire undead army was intent on reaching Drogon. She was forced to stop her search, but she still shouted, “Queen Daenerys!”

Drogon gave another pained cry, and Elia looked back to see Daenerys trying to climb over the shambles to reach a large black spear that had pierced Drogon’s shoulder. The sight of their strongest warrior both wounded and grounded sent a chill through her. But it was the four men of ice surrounding her that really stole her attention. Two were walking towards her, and two the queen.

Their white skin was as wrinkly as old leather, clinging to their bones, and white straggly hair reaching to their hips. Her eyes fell to their swords of ice and then back to the queen.

Knowing what she had to do, Elia only focused on dodging their blows as she charged the two not already focused on her. She kept her feet light in the snow as she threw strike after strike in rapid succession. Her weeks training in the kingdom’s dreadful weather had definitely helped, but it was the dead’s home. Still, she was able to at least steal their attention from the queen. The four of them now surrounded her in a loose circle. She swung her own swords, holding them out at full length as they watched her, likely trying to see her weaknesses.

They all lurched forward at once. She swung up, right, left. Knelt and twirled. She spun on her knees before jumping up, slicing through one’s neck. It shattered to nothing, and she whirled to where it had stood. 

Again, they all lurched forward, and she crossed her swords for a locked grip before pushing forward. They stumbled, and she kicked one in the knees before lunging a sword through another’s stomach. It shattered as the one before, and nearly one hundred wights that surrounded them fell to the ground.

Another three white walkers approached her, and she fell back to the ground as she kicked another and rammed her sword backwards into another. More wights tumbled to the ground, and she jumped back to her feet as the last four circled her just as they had earlier.

The air was starting to thin, her lungs turned to ice in her gut. But Ser Harlan had been relentless in his training, pushing her until she could barely stand, and then pushing her further still. So, she took a deep breath, exhaling when the walkers jumped forward again.

She spun on her heel out of the way, one sword over her and the other behind her back. The sound of ice hitting dragonglass rang out, and she slid one of her swords up their blade to ram it between its ribs. The walker shattered at those before it, and she used her momentum to spin out of the way of another’s attack.

They kept a tight circle around her, trying to take away her space for her spins. She knelt to the ground again, thankful for the snow to help her turn gracefully before she rammed her swords through two of their knees. They shattered as though she had hit somewhere fatal, and she took another deep breath as she jumped back up. The last one pushed her backwards, away from the armory. He swung widely, and she blocked his blow even as her muscles screamed at overuse before plunging her other blade into its belly.

She looked up to see that Daenerys climbing on Drogon’s back, the beast screeching before its wings beat, sending ice flying, and they again took to the air.

Her relief was short-lived when she saw another walking through the rest of the battle. This one looked different than the others, small horns covering its skull almost like a crown. The wights moved to protect it in a constant shield.

The Night King.

Before her fear could tighten its grip, she charged. It turned to her with unholy eyes, and then almost all of the wights turned to her.

“Lady Elia!” Vorian hurried to her side, panting as he held a large blade of dragonglass in both hands. “Come! Let us end this.”

“Let’s,” she agreed.

They both ran, pushing and slicing down the wights in their way. They jumped towards her, giving up tearing at her and trying to kill her by crushing her to death. But Vorian and her had trained together nearly every day for months, and they moved together as though reading each other’s thoughts.

Elia broke through the line before he did, and she jumped. The Night King turned at the last second, pulling up his own blade to stop her. She grunted as she rolled to the ground, but again he outmaneuvered her, jumping gracefully as she swung at his feet. 

A wight clawed at her leg and she pushed one sword through its skull as the other swung for the Night King’s back. Her entire body was beginning to hum with numbness, and she sliced through another two wights before again meeting their leader.

He frowned at her, giving up in his walk towards the hallway’s door that she knew would bring him that much closer to the godswood. He walked forward, swinging left and right. They avoided each other’s attacks with equal ease. Their swords rang loudly as they slammed together again and again.

Elia noticed the shift a second before he did. She was forcing him backwards.

Another white walker charged her, and she turned to evade his blow as the Night King used the opportunity to make a swipe of his own. She barely managed to spin out of the way in time, the tip of his sword slicing her ribs in a cut that made her bite back a scream.

Yet another white walker approached her again, so that she was surrounded on three sides. They circled her relentlessly, with more skills than the ones before. One sword sliced open her arm as the other swiped the back of her leg. She groaned as she lunged her sword through one of them.

The other shattered before she could go to move, and she saw Vorian smiling at her with his spear still raised. But just as quickly as relief flooded through her, it was taken away. Vorian’s mouth fell open as he looked down at the ice sword pierced through his chest.

Elia screamed as he fell to the ground, another white walker behind him. The Night King used her distraction, and his sword sliced through her ribs again, deeper than before, before she could turn away. She whimpered as she grit her teeth together, swaying on her feet as she held both swords out again. She looked down at the wound – too shallow to kill her immediately but deep enough for her to bleed out if she couldn’t treat it.

Cooling her anger to fuel her, she switched from defensive to offensive. The marched forward, her swords moving completely independently from one another as she evaded their blows. Within three strikes she found her advantage and dove her sword through the white walker’s neck.

The Night King continued to watch her blankly as his swipes quickened in speed as she now gave him the full attentions of his wrath. As she turned to dodge one of his blows, his hand swiped down, slamming his sword’s hilt into her wrist. She cried out as she dropped one of her swords. He continued to press his advantage, and she stumbled back before regaining her footing.

He stopped a few yards in front of her before suddenly grinning, the sight sending ice down her spine. He raised his hands, sending a heavy chill buzzing through the air. All at once, all the dead that had fallen, along with their brothers that had fallen in the battle, rose.

Elia looked around in horror, eyes settling on Vorian now staring at her with the bright blue eyes of the dead. All at once, they jumped at her. She dove for her other sword, but the blood loss was starting to wear away at her, and her vision blinked black. 

The Night King smiled at her a moment longer before continuing on his way to the godswood. She tried to charge, but the wights bit and scratched at her. Piling on her as she desperately swung her swords around. She sliced through Vorian’s neck, taking a little piece of her heart with him as he fell back lifeless yet again to the ground.

A wight jumped at her wrist, teeth biting into her hand and making her drop her sword yet again. Its mouth managed to clamp onto her hand before she rammed the other sword through its eye. She screamed in pain, looking down to see three of her fingers now missing.

In that moment, Elia knew that she would die there in this castle thousands of miles from her home. But should she die, she was glad to die a hero’s death, hoping her father would greet her with open arms in the afterlife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought you were going to read the Prince(ss) That Was Promised kill the Night King this chapter... sorry not sorry?
> 
> The Long Night really is so much to write! A few overlapping perspectives where I feel the need to lay down different foundations... and sadly not still able to focus on as many people as I want!


	26. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! So sorry for the delay... I've been camping these past 1.5 weeks (strongly suggest to anyone wanting to social distance but still get away!) and of course the first time I actually remembered to move everything over to my laptop from my home desktop, the rest of life said no thanks. First, all of the chapters had been downloaded with errors into google drive, and then even when I found away around that on my phone, the cracks that have been in the screen for about a year randomly decided that they'd break down the rest of the screen... BUT we're finally at the long-anticipated Jon versus the Night King!

Jon coughed up snow as he pushed himself from the ground. What the hell had happened? It was as if his connection with Rhaegal had been cut right in the middle, and the dragon had gone mad from it. He looked around, trying to get his bearings, before realizing where he was.

“Bran!”

He picked up Longclaw where it had fallen beside him, running as quickly as he could through the mass of trees. Leaves and branches whipped across his skin, and the snow was slippery underneath his practiced step. 

There was no time. He could feel it.

He skidded to a stop when he reached the clearing around the heart tree, his heart freezing in his chest at the sight in front of him. Arya and Lady Elia stood between Bran and just over a dozen white walkers – including the Night King himself.

Jon’s feet moved before his mind could catch up, running around the tree just as the two women charged. All of the white walkers moved forward, circling them, but the Night King was already looking at Jon as if he had expected him. Drogon roared above them before his fiery breath roared towards them.

Jon cursed as he jumped out of the way, the heat charring his back as the fire took over the forest. He dove to the ground. When he finally rolled to a stop, his entire body shaking as he desperately looked around for his family. Somehow, Bran had remained untouched even as the snow around him had been melted away. And Arya grunted as she jumped back up, Lady Elia rolling around in the snow as she put out the fire that had caught her sleeve.

The white walkers all stood exactly where they had, completely untouched by the dragon’s might. Jon looked up to see Daenerys glaring at the Night King before one of his soldiers tossed him a spear. She immediately retreated, but she wasn’t quick enough. Jon watched in frozen horror as the king’s throw sliced through Drogon’s wing, and the dragon screeched as he tumbled to the ground for the second time that night.

The sound of ice shattering stole back his attention, and he turned to see Arya and Lady Elia plunge their swords through the distracted white walkers. The Night King walked easily between the two surrounded women, and Jon scrambled back so that he was in between him and his brother once more.

The Night King walked slowly, unbothered, smoothly unsheathing his sword as he approached.

Jon yelled before charging. Their swords rang out as they connected again and again. Jon’s grunts grew louder as the Night King tried to maneuver him out of his way, but Jon had fought better swordsmen than him. His anger blotted his vision red, but he forced himself to be patient.

They moved in a wide circle, Jon always making sure to keep the tree and his brother to his back. He pivoted and twisted, sliding his sword up the king’s blade before pushing his weight forward, but the Night King seemed to always see his move before he made it. He turned and sliced Jon through the chest, just deep enough to draw blood before he managed to push himself back.

The Night King didn’t relent, and he used Jon’s momentum to push him back. His elbow knocked Longclaw from his grip. Jon slipped backwards, and the Night King threw his blade like a spear. Jon avoided it only by falling ungracefully, his sword reverberating in the burning tree just over his head.

Jon jumped out of the way as the Night King swung again and again. He pivoted to the right and left, dodging his blows as he looked out of the corner of his eye for his brother and sword.

The Night King smiled at him, approaching him like a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to go.

Waiting until the last moment, Jon dove out of the way. He rolled up to his feet, yanking his sword from the dying heart tree and taking several steps back out of the way. He peaked behind him to see that both Arya and Lady Elia were in control of their own fights, even as more white walkers appeared from the burning forest who appeared from the smoke that clogged the air.

Jon looked back to the Night King, who no longer looked as amused. He studied Jon carefully now, giving him time to catch his breath. His chest was soaked in blood, and his arms shook as they held onto his blade. It was as if death was creeping up on him slowly, and Jon knew he would soon be among the corpses that now littered his family’s home. He almost welcomed it, until he remembered.

_You will survive, Jon. I know you think your story ends tonight, but it doesn’t. I won’t allow it. You will live, and we will figure this all out together. Do you hear me?_

He couldn’t die now. He had made a promise. And he would rather let the Red Woman raise him from the dead again than leave his family – than leave _Sansa_ – alone in this world.

As if sensing Jon’s returned life, the Night King moved onto the offensive. He marched forward, twirling his blade before slicing. Left. Down. Right. Up.

Jon dodged him blow for blow, but he was still moving backward. It wasn’t enough.

He forced his heel into the ground, his blade ringing as he stopped the Night King dead in his tracks. Jon evaded and dodged each of his swipes, squinting as blood poured from his forehead into his right eye. His entire body fell numb as he swung and swiped. It was almost as if he was watching himself fight rather than dealing the blows himself.

Suddenly, the Night King spun, catching Arya midjump as she had herself at him. She gurgled as he stood there, choking the life from her as blue ice crept over her neck.

Jon dove forward, driving his sword through the Night King’s back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is! I was actually a fan of D&D making Arya kill the Night King even though it made absolutely no sense with the prophecies purely based off the fact I just love Arya that much... hence why I still had to make her a major key in his death! I've always thought that the Night King could at the very LEAST see as much as Bran/The Three Eyed Raven, but for purpose of the fic I had him where he could see the future. Not the biggest factor in the overall plot since I decided to follow D&D's general layout up until this point (it is about to get very, very different!) BUT since Arya has been trained specifically by the Many-Faced God to be his weapon (known by many different things to many different people) to operate in the shadows, I'm operating this off the belief that not even the Night King could see her coming, and only to react in the moment, giving Jon enough time to kill him. And what do y'all think about him stabbing him in the back?! I can't personally see Jon giving a rat's ass about honor if it would mean killing the Night King, similar to how Jaime thought of the way he'd killed the Mad King all those years ago


	27. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! Two chapters in one day as apology for the lack of updates... although not sure if this counts because it may seem like a filler. I know a lot of you are really looking forward to Jon and Sansa's post-battle talk about their kiss, but I have to ask you to be a little more patient! There will be one more chapter after this, and then we'll get there.

Tyrion walked through the castle gates to the rows and rows of pyres. Whoever didn’t have an ancestral home or family left to bury them were being burnt. The Night King had left an army of over a thousand corpses behind, making it rather difficult to burn everyone. Whoever they had found that had been mostly bones were being thrown onto the wagons, with ties holding them in place to be able to be piled to the top of the canopies, to be dumped in the river to the east after the celebrations had finished. But no one had wanted to dig a mass grave, the North still superstitious and wanting the majority of the bodies burned despite the dead being slaughtered.

He walked up to his queen’s right side. She stood with her shoulders tense and her hands folded over one another, looking around sadly at all of the sobbing people as they readied to burn their loved ones. They had somehow managed to survive the night without a single one of her counselor’s falling, so they were all just spectators for the massive funeral.

Sansa Stark stood in front of Theon Greyjoy, her shoulders silently shaking as Jon stood with a hand resting on her trembling back. Arya and the Hound stood in front of a dead Beric Dondarrion. Samwell Tarly in front of a man of the Night’s Watch. Jorah Mormont stood behind the Northmen who were burning the little but fierce lady of his house, who had somehow managed to kill the giant that had breached the North Gate before falling. A very pale Lady Elia stood with her uninjured arm around Lady Ladybright’s shaking shoulders in front of her lady friend’s fallen brother, her tears as silent as her friend’s was loud. Bronn stood at the woman’s other side, not touching her but standing close enough that he was sure the lady could feel his presence. Grey Worm and Missandei were at the fallen Unsullied’s pyres, both standing in the same pose with their hands folded behind their backs.

Finally, Jon Snow stepped forward and turned to those that had gathered.

“We're here to say goodbye to our brothers and sisters. To our fathers and mothers. To our friends. Our fellow men and women who set aside their differences to fight together and die together so that others might live. Everyone in this world owes them a debt that can never be repaid. It is our duty and our honor to keep them alive in memory for those who come after us and those who come after them for as long as men draw breath. They were the shields that guarded the realms of men. And we shall never see their like again.”

One by one, each person stepped up, setting up the pyres under their loved one’s ablaze. Once they were all lit, everyone waited almost an hour before returning to the castle’s walls.

Tyrion blamed that occasion for why everyone was so somber and quiet at the victory feast, even as the great hall was filled to capacity. His brother at his side, he walked past the Gendry boy who was inquiring about Arya Stark, and Bronn who was leaned far too close to Lady Ladybright to be appropriate.

Just as they reached the front table, Daenerys stood up. “Gendry,” she called, loud enough that what little people had been talking quieted to silence.

Gendry looked around, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stepped forward. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“You are Robert Baratheon’s son,” she said. Tyrion hurried around the table, getting ready to whisper her away from threatening to burn him alive as the boy nodded, fear peaking out behind his confusion. “You are aware he took my family’s throne and tried to have me murdered?”

“I didn’t know he was my father until after he was dead,” Gendry said.

“Yes, he’s dead. His brothers are, too,” Queen Daenerys said. She looked entirely too happy to make the boy quake in his place, and Tyrion inched closer to her. Jon leaned closer to her other as well, as if he had the same intent. “So, who’s the Lord of Storm’s End now?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace,” Gendry said, glancing over at Lady Sansa before looking back to the queen. But Tyrion turned to watch the lady, too. He could only see the profile of her face, but it was in that mask that hid her expressions in the way that only someone who had spent years in King’s Landing could master. But what did she have to hide behind that mask? He hated that he wasn’t certain.

“Does anyone?” Daenerys asked. She looked around the hall expectantly, but no one answered. Of course, there was someone who would inherit the name – if they hadn’t already by Cersei’s decree – after Tommen had died, but no one would know who that was so far North. Even Dorne had not cared much about the politics of its neighbors, too similar to their Northern counterpart in that way. Daenerys’s grin widened before looking back to the bastard boy. “I think you should be the Lord of Storm’s End.”

“I can’t be. I’m a bastard.”

“No, you are Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End, the lawful son of Robert Baratheon,” Daenerys said as she pushed her shoulders back, looking around as she dared anyone to say differently, “Because that is what your queen has made you.”

Ser Davos was the first to stand in the crowd, raising his pint glass high in the air. “To Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End!”

The entire room stood up them, each raising their goblets. “To Lord Gendry!” “To Gendry!” “To the Lord of Storm’s End!”

Tyrion stepped closer as conversations sparked back up, now much louder than before. “A fitting reward for a hero. And another lord who will be forever loyal to you.”

“See? You’re not the only one who’s clever,” Daenerys said.

Tyrion would’ve missed it if he hadn’t been looking for it, the way Sansa’s eyes sparkled before she emptied them back to blank canvases. He thought back to what he had heard on the way up here. Robert’s boy asking after Arya Stark… had his queen just made a mistake?

“Go and celebrate,” Daenerys said, waving him away from her before leaning into Jon.

He took his leave before scanning the room. His gaze found Lady Elia quicker than he would’ve liked, like a moth to a flame. Still, he had a duty to do. So, he walked over to her, happy to see her complexion had returned to its normal soft brown. She glared at the stubs where her three fingers used to be as others drank and laughed around her.

“You should find my brother the next time you have a chance,” he said by way of greeting. “He had to learn to fight with his left hand, too.”

“Oh, I _am_ left-handed,” she said, raising her uninjured hand holding a horn of the Wildling’s goat milk before taking a large gulp. “I don’t know how your brother relearned as he did, but fate was kinder to me. I just don’t know how to put this horn down without spilling so that I can eat.”

“I think that was the Wildling’s intent. Force you to finish the drink quicker that way.”

“Well, this is a victory feast,” Elia said before chugging the rest of the drink in three large gulps. She placed it on the table next to her before picking up her fork and shoving the beans in her mouth in a very unladylike manner. She swallowed and wiped at her mouth with her other sleeve before looking back to him. “Are you here as Hand of the Queen or as Tyrion?”

“Ah, aren’t we one and the same?” he asked, scratching at his beard.

Her eyes narrowed before pointing in a random direction. “Go, then, Hand of the Queen. This is a victory feast, and I intend to not remember the night.”

Tyrion hesitated for a moment, but her glare intensified, forcing him to accept her dismissal. He spotted Bran in the back of the room, watching everyone with a blank expression. Happy for the chance to talk to the boy who could apparently see all that ever was.

“This is clever,” Tyrion said, waving at the wheeled contraption that brought the boy everywhere. “Even better than the saddle I designed for you.”

“It’s the same one Daeron Targaryen built for his crippled nephew 120 years ago,” Bran said, glancing at him before returning to staring at nothing, or perhaps everything. “I liked that one.”

“You know our history better than anyone. That will be useful as Lord of Winterfell.”

“I’m not the Lord of Winterfell,” Bran said, eyes flashing between white and his dark brown. The sight was as magical as it was creepy.

“You’re the only surviving trueborn son of Ned Stark,” Tyrion said, not giving up on his play. But the boy only sat quietly until he was forced to relent. “You don’t want it?”

“I don’t really want anymore,” he said simply.

Tyrion turned when he heard Elia laugh, her face already flushed as she grabbed an entire pitcher of wine from one of the serving girls. “I envy you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have a question to ask all of you! I originally named this the Sword of the Morning after my OC, but although she has a major part to play in the story ahead, I've started thinking about how I think the title/summary oversells her particular part. I've been thinking of a few different titles to change it to myself, but was curious if any of you had any suggestions? I look forward to hearing them!


	28. Daenerys

Daenerys sat in her same place at the head of the table, waving for Missandei to take the empty place that Jorah had just vacated to try to talk to some of the Northern lords. Her ever faithful friend sat down, looking timidly around at the increasingly rowdy crowd of people. She was glad the seat was once again taken; Kinvara had been eyeing it but had been too wary to take the steps forward.

_From the fire you were reborn to remake the world. It is your destiny to kill the King of Night. You may sit on a throne of iron, but you will always be the Queen of Light._

No, Kinvara knew better than to approach her now. 

Jon had also left her side to lean against the table’s edge where his sisters sat. The large Wildling leader stood on the floor below them but was still nearly at their height.

“Go on, then!” Tormund said, thrusting his horn into Jon’s hands. “All of it!”

“No, not in one go,” Jon said, shaking his head as he laughed. When had she last seen him smile that big, much less be happy enough to truly _laugh_? Would he lose his brooding disposition now that the Night King was well and truly dead?

“Go on,” Sansa said, raising her glass of wine to him. She finished the contents of the goblet as if in challenge to him, before she waved over a serving girl for more and smiled wider at him. “I believe in you.”

“We have to celebrate our victory!” the Wildling insisted.

“Vomiting is not celebrating.”

“Yes, it is,” the Wildling and Arya said at the same time, making one another laugh louder.

The Wildling jumped to the platform them, holding up another horn that he’d somehow pulled from thin air. To her surprise, he turned to her, then. “To the dragon queen!”

Not one for a missed opportunity, Daenerys stood with everyone else in their cheers. “To Jon Snow, the hero of Winterfell!”

Everyone’s cheers doubled in volume, and Daenerys raised her brow to Jon, eyes flickering to the horn and then back to his face. Understanding her challenge, he sighed before tipping the horn back. She watched as drops of the goat milk poured down his beard. And when he almost gave up, the Wildling grabbed the horn’s pointed tip and raising it higher. Both Stark girls laughed and cheered, until Jon was finally allowed to come up for air.

Jon coughed, pounding a fist to his chest as he smiled at each of his sisters before his gaze fell to her.

Lady Sansa stood up, then. She drank the rest of her wine that the serving girl had refilled, swaying in her place before Lady Arya jumped up to steady her.

“Now, now Red Wolf!” the Wildling said, stopping her from stepping off the dais. Red Wolf? The woman who cowered with the rest of the women and children while Daenerys was saving her people? “The celebration has just begun!”

“Don’t worry, Tormund. I’m not finished just yet,” Lady Sansa said, patting him on the shoulder. He chuckled, seeming happy with her answer as he held out a hand to help her walk down the steps. As Daenerys watched them interact, she couldn’t help but of the two as great match. “But this hall is getting much too hot for me. I think I’ll go outside and celebrate with our people.”

“I’ll watch her,” Lady Arya said, looking to Jon when he pushed himself from the table. Did he mean to leave her? She knew that he was protective, but surely the lady could watch over herself in her own castle. “You stay here.”

Daenerys watched as the Stark sisters walked out the hall, happy when their departure made Jon come back to his seat. Where he belonged all along: next to her.

“Can’t hold your liquor, King Crow?” the Wildling said, walking so he was still even with Jon. When Jon just groaned, the Wildling laughed, but Daenerys couldn’t breathe. _King_? “It’s because you’re so little. Little but strong! Strong enough to befriend an enemy and get murdered for it!”

Daenerys felt Missandei rustle beside her, but she stayed quiet listening to the Wildling continue.

“When most people get bloody murdered, they stay that way! But not this one. He comes back and keeps fighting! He climbed on a fucking dragon and fought. What kind of person climbs on a fucking dragon? A madman or a king!”

At those words, Jon turned to her, fear clear in his eyes. But Daenerys only raised her glass in salute.

When the Wildling left them, intent on making more people as drunk as he was, Jon turned towards her completely. “Ignore him,” he said, breath smelling of the goat’s milk enough so that she pulled away. But then he only leaned in closer, hand darting out to hold the one she had resting on the table. “They all know you’re the queen.”

“It’s not your Wildling friend I’m worried about,” Daenerys said. “It’s your sister. I defended the North from the dead, and still she has not thanked me. She completely ignored me tonight. She did nothing but cower while I defended her people, but now she’s the Red Wolf?”

“She didn’t cower.”

Daenerys whipped around in surprise at Missandei’s words, who looked just as surprised to have said them. “What did you say?”

Missandei's gaze fell to her lap, looking as if she was about to take the words back, but then her back straightened and she looked her queen in the eye. “She didn’t cower. When the wights almost broke through the keep, she defended us with just a dagger. She and some of the Free Folk women saved everyone in the keep. I’d be dead if not for her.”

“And so, what? All is forgiven?” Daenerys asked, pushing herself to stand. “She has still not bent the knee.”

“But she will,” Missandei said as if she believed it. Her ever gentle, optimistic friend. But no, that woman would never bend the knee. She only had to find a way to _remove_ her without losing Jon. She knew that now. Perhaps she always did. “It will just take time.”

“Time I cannot afford,” Daenerys said. When she moved around the table, Jon stood up to follow her, but she held up a hand. “No. I need to be alone.”

How dare Lady Sansa try to steal her most treasured friend? How dare she try to steal her lover?

The _Red Wolf_ did not know who she was dealing with. She did not understand that Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen was different than other women. Her dreams came true. Her wants became reality. Anyone who had ever crossed her was dead. And if Lady Sansa continued such unabashed treachery, she would be next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, Daenerys isn't handling the fact the prophecy wasn't about her well, is she? So I'm going to make Saturday my official "update" day moving forward... the chapters may or may not be getting longer the more I write, starting with next week's from Sansa's POV :)


	29. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Judging from the comments, the chapter a few of you have been waiting "patiently" for ;)

After walking around the castle and celebrating with almost every group who called to her – Northmen, Free Folk, Dornish alike – Sansa had finally decided to return to her chambers. Arya had walked with her at the start, but when Sansa had stopped drinking, Arya had started again. And upon realizing that her sister was sober enough to walk without aide, she had disappeared in search of Gendry. Sansa had let her go, happy that her sister was happy (and happy that her sister was securing the North another ally without even meaning to). She doubted her sister would ever marry, but loyalty could be bought in other ways.

Sansa was so lost in her head, planning and re-planning, that she missed the strong light already coming from underneath her door. People knew better than to go into her chambers when she wasn’t there. The Starks were the only one with the key, and none of them ever entered without her there. So, when she saw Jon pacing angrily back and forth, she nearly tripped over her dress.

This wasn’t good. She hadn’t thought of what to do about him – about _them_ – yet. Love never ended well for those who played the game of thrones, but a small part of her commanded that she risk it. That she’d gone through enough pain and hardship. That she deserved whatever happiness she could find.

Ghost’s head raised to look at her from where he was resting on the fire, and Jon stopped when he realized he was no longer alone. She hadn’t realized he was so angry, his face pinched and his eyes black. He charged towards her, making her stumble back. But he didn’t stop. And when her head banged back against the door behind her, his arms shot out on either side, trapping her there.

_Breathe in. Breathe out. Ramsay is dead. This is Jon. Even angry, he would never hurt you._

Sansa raised her hand to push him back. He moved back, but not far enough to make his arms fall, making her huff. She scowled at him, her own breathing already coming out unsteadily at his proximity. She used to think it was out of fear, but this was a different kind. Not fear. It was something else entirely, that scared her just as much but for a different reason. “Are you going to tell me what has you so angry? Or am I supposed to guess?”

“Missandei says that wights broke into the keep. That you ran to try to be the hero with just a _dagger_,” he said, nostrils flaring, confusing her further. “What were you thinking? You’ve never picked up a blade in your entire life–”

“My people were being attacked,” Sansa said, pushing at him again. This time he let himself fall back, and she used the space to walk to the other side of her solar, away from prying ears that might be pressed against her door. She didn’t hear him following her over the sound of the pounding in her skull, so when she turned around to see him only a breath away, she slipped, her adrenaline mixing with the alcohol still in her system. His arm shot out to catch her by the waist before she could fall, and she cursed all the wine and goat milk she’d drunk. She blamed the drinks for why she let his warm hand stay there instead of distancing herself like she should. “I know I’m not a fighter like you and Arya, but what else was I supposed to do? Sit back and cower while I watched the dead tear apart our people?”

“Let the spearwives fight! They were there for a reason,” Jon yelled. His voice deep and scratchy in a way that made her throb between her legs as his fingers tightened. It wasn’t painful, but her heart beat faster all the same. She hadn’t seen this side to him since they were fighting to reclaim Winterfell. It was the first time she finally realized that her feelings for the kind and gentle man she’d met in Castle Black were not as a sister loves a brother. Not when she left their argument before the battle to touch herself to the thought of him throwing her against the map table and taking her then and there. She had not realized when she mourned for what could never be that she had actually been blessed. Now that she knew how Jon felt, her fantasies were running wild.

“I did what I had to do as Lady of Winterfell. The same as anyone in my position should’ve done,” Sansa said. Her hand went to his chest again, but her fingers tightened over his tunic instead of pushing him away again. “And I would do it again. I _will_ do it again if the war to come calls for it.”

“You will not.” Jon took a step closer, until she could feel his chest against hers. Just like they were before the battle had begun… when she used the excuse of possible death to do foolish things. This close, she could feel his heart beating against her. It was beating just as fast as her own, thanks to the too intimidate position. 

But she would not let him distract her. “I will if it comes to it. But I still don’t understand why you’re _angry_,” she repeated.

“_You could’ve_ _died_!” Jon shouted. His head fell against her shoulder, his breath hot against her. He continued, much quieter, as if the declaration had taken what little energy he had left. “You could’ve died, Sansa. And then where would the North be? Where would _I _be?”

Sansa blinked. He was angry because he– he cared? It made no sense, but then when was the last time anyone had truly cared for her? Jon, Arya, what was left of Bran – they were the first since their father’s head was chopped off who befriended or protected her for more than what her name and face could give them. She hardly knew what it looked like anymore.

“I appreciate your concern, Jon. Really, I do, and I promise not to run into battle if I can help it,” Sansa said. She grabbed him by the chin, waiting patiently until he opened his eyes. “I will not die a coward’s death.”

“You will not die at all,” Jon growled. “Not until you are old a grey. Peacefully in your sleep.”

Sansa stood quietly as she looked at him, thinking over how to make him understand. His protectiveness was more valuable to her than gold, and it warmed her like a Dornish desert. She knew he didn’t intend for his words to suggest holding her down, but they did, nonetheless.

“I hope so. I hope we all do. You and Arya and Bran. I hope we all sit in Winterfell one day while our grandchildren run about and play knights and princesses like we used to,” Sansa said. “But our lives have not been one blessed with peace. Not in a long time. And we still have many battles to win before we could even hope for that in our future. 

“I will continue to do whatever I have to do to ensure the North and our future is safe. I will not rule from a tower miles high above our people. I will live with them, and I will die with them, if it comes to it. I know that’s not what you want me to say, but you will not change my mind. When it comes to protecting our family and our people, I will not back down.”

Jon huffed, but he only pulled her closer. “I’m not surprised. You’ve always been stubborn.”

“As have you,” Sansa said. His eyes flickered to her lips, making her mouth suddenly very dry. She tried to swallow but couldn’t. “I– we need to talk about our conversation before.”

“You mean the one where I told you I was in love with you?” Jon asked, the words making her heart flutter just as much as it had the first time. “You kissed me, unless I dreamt it, but your mouth is twitching like it always does before you share bad news.”

“It– what?”

“There,” Jon said, brushing the right corner of her lips before letting go over and stepping back.

Did her lips really give her away like that? And here she thought that she was one of the better liars in the castle. All the better for Jon to tell her now so that she could practice schooling her face better, then.

“So, I’m guessing you don’t love me back,” Jon said, scraping his hand through his beard. “What was that kiss, then? Trying to give me reason to survive the night?”

“What? No, of course not!” Sansa said. It was her turn to step towards him, and she snatched his hand to stop him from turning away. “But don’t you remember what I said before? We have to be smarter. We can’t let our hearts rule us, or they’ll lead us straight to the chopping block.”

“Aye, and I’ve already been promised to Daenerys,” Jon hissed.

“It’s not as if I _want_ it,” she said, matching his anger for tat. “But we have to think of the North. You would be our only guarantee that we would be safe when she’s on the throne. That someone would be thinking of us at all, more than how many pelts, lumber and horses we’ll be trading them. I wish things were different, but they’re not. And if your queen knew how you and I felt–”

“How _do_ you feel?” Jon asked, deflating again. His emotions were giving her whiplash. He was always like this, pushing her away and pulling her closer in the same breath. “I’m not good at this. I can’t read people like you do. I know the only family you hate more than the Targaryens are the Lannisters. And I know that our father died because of this kind of… I know all of that, but I don’t care. Not anymore. I’m done fighting. We’ve both not stopped fighting since we left Winterfell, and I– don’t we deserve this?”

“It’s not a matter of if we deserve this. The question is if we can _afford_ this, and we can’t, Jon.” She was desperately holding onto that truth. Cersei and Jaime’s love of each other plunged the kingdoms into a war. Robb’s love of Talisa cost the North any chance at victory. Aunt Lysa’s love for Littelfinger drove her mad. Littlefinger’s love for _her, _her mother come again_,_ cost the smartest player in Westeros his life. Love never ended well, and there was no reason her and Jon would be the exception. “The North needs you to marry Daenerys. The North needs me to marry a lord who would give us strength. We don’t have the luxury of love.”

“You still haven’t told me how you feel,” Jon said, still not giving up. Still not seeing the reason she so badly needed him to see. “I need you to say it. I need you to tell me. Do you love me?”

Sansa huffed. It was impossible to talk to him when he was like this. So, she would be honest, if it helped him move on. She might still keep secrets from her family, but she would never lie to them. “You know I do.”

Jon charged her. His lips smashed to her. It was hard and clumsy and filled with a passion that made her knees week. She let out a strangled noise, filled with unsatisfied need and desire, and he responded with a groan before pulling her closer. A hand wrapped through her hair while the other hugged her around the waist until she was completely molded to him. Their mouths fought for dominance – for what did they do better than fight one another? Against one another _for_ one another, always.

His tongue slipped inside her mouth, gentle but demanding, and it was like nothing she’d ever experienced. Nothing like the honey-flavored poison of Joffrey’s quick kiss. Nothing like the demands of ownership from Littlefinger’s forced kisses. They always took from her. And Jon took, too, but he gave even more. He was attacking her and healing her all at once.

It terrified her.

Sansa pushed, just barely, but Jon still pulled away. Not too far, for his grip only tightened, but she knew if she stepped back, he would let her go. He would never force himself on her. He was too good for that. He was too good for _her_.

“Sansa?”

With his cheeks flushed and his lips reddened from their kiss, he somehow looked even more handsome. But she could not let herself be seduced. If she wasn’t thinking this through, who would? The game was the one thing she was good at. The one way she knew how to fight. _How to win._

All her moves had to be towards her end goal. A world where her family was safe and happy. But what did that really look like? Bran said he needed to stay in Winterfell – that his powers were strongest by the weirwood tree. Arya never admitted what she wanted, but Sansa could guess it was somewhere between a life with Gendry and a life of freedom. Preferably both. She had thought that Jon’s would be with Daenerys. That even if it killed her, he would learn to love the dragon queen one day. That he would find his happiness in the chaos of King’s Landing, and she would spend the rest of their time teaching him the lessons that Littlefinger had taught her. But now he said he loved her, and she hesitated.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“You.”

His simple answer reheated the blush on her cheeks, but she needed more. She needed the truth. The whole truth.

“No, what do you _want_? In ten years, where do you want to be?”

“In Winterfell with you and Bran and Arya.” He didn’t even think over his answer, and she wondered how long he’d harbored these feelings. Had he as long as her? Since they reunited in Castle Black all those moons ago? “I don’t want to be warden or king or anything. You were always better at that sort of thing. You should be matron – or queen, if Daenerys wouldn’t burn you alive. And I would be here with you any way you’d have me. A part of your counsel. A guard–”

Sansa’s stomach rolled, and she spun away from him as she held back bile. No. No. _No_. They would not become Cersei and Jaime. They couldn’t. They had to be better than them, or what was the point?

“It’s just not possible, Jon. I’m sorry,” she said, refusing to look back to him. She might not have the strength to say it if she did. “We will not become our enemies. We are _Starks_. We can’t control who we love, but we can control what we do with it.”

Jon only answered with silence. She would’ve thought he’d given up and left, but she would’ve heard that, too. When seconds stressed to minutes, she almost turned around. Almost told him she changed her mind and they could live however they wanted, consequences be damned. 

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said eventually. The fear in his voice had her turning around before she could stop herself. And when she saw his face had fallen as white as a ghost, she walked back towards him until they stood close enough to comfort, but still far enough away that her heart was safe. “It’s– gods, Sansa, just please don’t hate me.”

“I could never hate you,” Sansa said quickly, looking back and forth between his grey eyes. He took a deep breath, but any words he might’ve said fell away into the silence, and he only shook his head. “Jon, you’re scaring me.”

“I wanted to tell you sooner, but then Bran told me that it was too dangerous. That you and Arya would… But gods, I should’ve told you before I– before I told you that I was in love with you,” Jon said. He had their father’s eyes – not just in color, but in expression. They were windows to their souls. She could see his fear and disgust, either over them or what he was about to tell her, but she also saw love. It made her heart ache. “I’m not sure if now’s the right time, but if you’re leaving here because– I can’t let you walk away without knowing the full truth.”

“What do you mean?” For the first time in however long she could remember, she was completely lost. What secret could he have that was so dangerous Bran didn’t trust her with it? He had said countless times how much she couldn’t act against the dragon queen before the Night King was dead, in any capacity. Was this about that? Was it something about Daenerys? But that didn’t make sense, either. How could Daenerys’s secret make this love between them right?

Jon took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly before they reopened with a determined glint. He was still afraid, but now she could see it wasn’t of some danger. It was vulnerability, which only made her more desperate for him to spit it out, whatever it was, so that she could comfort him.

“I’ve never been a Stark,” he said. She opened her mouth to deny it, but the look in his eye made her close it again. He took a deep breath. “Lyanna Stark was my mother. Rhaegar Targaryen was my father. He didn’t kidnap her and rape her. He loved her, and she loved him. They married in the Dorne in secret… my real name is Viserys Targaryen.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open, speechless for the first time in her life.

If what he was saying was true – and she knew it was – that would make him the true heir to the Targaryen line. It gave him the strongest claim to Seven Kingdoms, not Daenerys. It would mean that they no longer had to kneel to the dragon bitch from her so-called birthright. It would mean that for the first time in centuries, the people would have a good king. A just, honorable king who would actually care about what happened to them.

And she couldn’t help but think how much the story just made sense. Her father had brought Jon home from the war. He would’ve returned home with both the babe and his late sister. If her father was anyone else, everyone would’ve doubted who the babe really was. But no one dared call a Stark a liar. And why else would Rhaegal had grown so fondly of Jon? She had thought it was because Daenerys was in love with him, but that wasn’t it. 

Jon was a wolf, but he was also a dragon.

Her mind started to think through how she could make it happen. Varys was their best chance in the dragon queen’s current advisors, maybe Kinvara too since Jon had proven himself to be their precious prince that was promised.

But then Jon shuffled, and she cursed at herself. Strategy could wait. Jon was all that mattered now.

“You’re still a Stark, Jon,” Sansa said, grabbing his shaking hands and pulling them to her chest. “It might be Aunt Lyanna’s blood that runs through your veins instead of Father’s, but her blood is just as strong–”

“I’m a _Targaryen_,” he hissed the words, wincing at though they physically pained him to say. “I’m the _enemy_. For fuck’s sake, one of my grandfather’s burned the other alive. What do– I– all my life, I was so proud to be Father’s son. But I’m not.”

“You _were_. You _are_,” Sansa said. She grabbed his face between her hands and wiped away his tears with her thumbs. Gods, she had never seen him cry before, and the sight made her heart _break_. “You are more than who birthed you. He raised you. He loved you as much as the rest of us. This doesn’t change anything.”

He scoffed. “It changes everything!”

“It doesn’t!” she said, desperately trying to make him understand. Help him know she meant every word she was saying. “Theon told me what you said to him. That he was a Greyjoy and a Stark. That he didn’t have to choose. It’s the same for you. You’re a Stark and a Targaryen, just like I’m a Stark and a Tully. You don’t have to– _you_ get to pick and choose what pieces you want and put yourself back together any way you want. If you don’t want anything to do with them, then don’t! But no matter what you choose, you’re still a Stark. You’re still–”

Her mouth opened, then, suddenly realizing why he had told her when he had. They weren’t half-siblings. They were _cousins_.

But as quickly as she thought it, she realized she still could never have him. His new home would still be in King’s Landing, and she would never leave the North ever again. Not even for Jon.

“This means you’re the true heir to the Seven Kingdoms,” she said softly. Sad in her selfishness, even though she shouldn’t be anything but happy.

“I don’t want it, Sansa,” Jon said, grip suddenly tight on her arm. “I told you what I want. To live here in Winterfell with you. Please, don’t tell anyone. Well, Arya, of course, and Bran already knows but– please, keep this between us. I was never meant to be king of anything. I don’t care whose blood I have. I don’t want it.”

“But, Jon, you’re the king the Seven Kingdoms need. I just told you that you’re still a Stark, and you know what that means. It means you have to sacrifice for the people you’re responsible for. You’re– Do you know how long it’s been since someone sat on the Iron Throne that actually _deserved_ the crown? You are gentle, and kind, and good. You know how to listen to your advisors, but how to lead and make the decisions that only you can see need to happen. You could actually break the wheel Daenerys is so hellbent on destroying–”

“That bloody chair _is_ the wheel!” Jon yelled, twisting from her to stride about the room. Ghost whined at his distress, but Jon just kept marching in circles. “As long as it exists, people like Dany – people like Littlefinger – people like them will always exist! They’ll throw away countless lives just to get it! I don’t want anything to do with it. I wasn’t even good at ruling one kingdom. And you want me to rule _seven_?”

Sansa couldn’t answer him. She was too struck by something he’d said. ‘As long as it exists’… she had always thought of the Iron Throne as a simple truth. It would always be there. But was that truly the case? It had only been there for three hundred years, but its roots had planted deep.

They could trust the Vale. With Yohn Royce’s guidance, her cousin Robin would have a real chance at growing into an honorable and just ruler. The Vale had hidden away in their mountains for as long as she’d been alive. They would welcome independency like an old friend. She had never met her uncle Edmure, but she imagined after being a prisoner to the Freys and Lannisters for so long, he would welcome the complete control over his life much as she had before Jon had bent the knee. The Stormlands would need help, as she doubted Gendry knew the first thing about ruling, but he wasn’t loyal to the dragon queen. He was loyal to Arya, and Jon, too, from their adventures north of the wall. If she asked him to stand with the North, he would.

Cersei Lannister had named House Rowan the Warden of the Reach, as punishment to the surviving of the Tyrells for the ‘crimes’ of Lady Olenna. But they were one of houses related to Garth Greenhand, the High King of the Fist Men, and his son Garth the Gardener, First King of the Reach. If she’d learned anything about the world, it was that even the best of people would jump at the chance for power. To be named king or queen. They had no loyalties to the dragon queen, so when Cersei was gone, they would only have loyalties to themselves. Her spies told her that the people were happy with their leadership, even if they weren’t happy with Cersei annihilating the Tyrells. As much as she had liked Margaery, she would be a fool to believe herself anything but the key to the North to the future queen. If the Reach was happy with their new lord, who happened to have ill will against Cersei, then she would leave it at that.

It was only Lady Elia that she was worried about. She wasn’t sure what she would do, but Sansa had grown fond of her. She didn’t want to go to war with her or Dorne.

“Sansa?”

She looked up to see Jon staring at her with brows drawn together, in the way he always did when he was worried about her. And she had once again had gotten lost in her own head.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said. She reached forward to cup his cheek, enjoying the feel of the coarseness of his beard beneath her hand. He shivered at the intimacy, making her smile tentatively. His reactions excited her. She had seen desire in men’s eyes when they looked at her since she was just a young girl. But to have _Jon_ look at her like that. “What about King in the North? Would you want to be that again if you could?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. When her hand moved to drop, his own shot up, holding it there. “I might’ve bent the knee to Daenerys, but _you_ are my queen. The North should be yours.”

Sansa licked her lips. “Do you trust me?”

“Wh– of _course_ I do,” he said, looking as if she’d slapped him. “You really don’t know that? After everything? After what I just told you?”

“That’s not– it’s just that I have an idea,” she said carefully. Thinking how to word it. The pieces were beginning to piece together, but it would be difficult. He wouldn’t like it, and neither would she. “A way that the North can be free again. That every kingdom could. But you’re not going to like how.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you everything. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I don’t want to steal your honor from you,” she said. That much was true. He was a good man, even if he loved a woman such as she, and she would not take that from him. He had lied to Daenerys about his feelings, but she didn’t want him to kill her. Even if she was a terrible queen – even if her dragons were a risk they couldn’t afford – Jon would not want to kill her for hypothetical crimes she might commit. He did not understand that once someone decided to play the game of thrones, they would only ever have one of two fates: win or die. “But I have something to ask from you. Something you’re not going to like. I’m not going to like it either, but we have to be the ones to tell the story. Otherwise, it’ll get ahead of us and we won’t be able to save it.”

“Tell me,” he said, his grip on her tightening as he looked as though he was readying for a blow. And she wouldn’t disappoint.

“I need you to tell Daenerys who your parents are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodness... almost 5K words?! I thought about separating the chapter and maybe splitting between their POVs, but I liked this flow better. And there was just so much to write down! I'd love to hear your thoughts on Sansa telling Jon she loves him, too, and how she reacted to his statement about the Iron Throne. The Seven Kingdoms just that once more?!
> 
> Any guesses on if Bran never wanted Sansa to know because of events like in show cannon or if there was an unsaid "yet" at the end of his statement? And how Sansa will rearrange her gameboard with this new piece?


	30. Varys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh a new POV... wonder what Varys is thinking? (Other than pls halp)

When Queen Daenerys’s summons came around midday, Varys was prepared. They would be discussing her conquest, now that the war with the dead was finally won. Sights now set on King’s Landing, he promised himself that he would not make the same mistake as many before him who underestimated Tywin Lannister’s daughter. She was his true legacy and a worthy opponent. He had heard many whispers from the south. Just as many good as bad, so was the way of things.

When Varys reached the queen’s quarters, the Dothraki guards let him inside unceremoniously. The door swung open to reveal a rather irritable looking Jon Snow. (So much for his natural broody disposition dying with the dead.) He stepped back, revealing the rest of the room. It appeared Varys was one of the last to arrive. Tyrion, Lady Sansa, Lady Dayne, Tormund Giantsbane, Yohn Royce, Jorah Mormont, and Grey Worm were already standing around the map in the center of the room.

“My apologies on not coming sooner, Your Grace,” he said with a small bow.

Daenerys ignored him, as she often did, and continued staring into the flames. Everyone stood quietly, the air thick with its usual tension, while Varys took his place in the space between Lady Dayne and Grey Worm. When the door knocked again, it opened to reveal a Dothraki named Akho and Kinvara.

He had noticed a shift in the High Priestess since the battle. It was Lady Melisandre’s whose choice in the prince that was promised had apparently come to fruition. Jon Snow had slayed the Night King after pulling his blade from the fire. Kinvara still leaned into Daenerys, though, which he had expected. As much as godly men and women claimed they worked for the good of gods and men, they were as corrupted by power as easily as anyone. Her god told her Jon was the savior, but yet she still clung to the dragon queen’s skirts because she was the one in the room with the power and will to bend the Seven Kingdoms to the will of her Red God.

“If that’s everyone,” Jon said, glancing at Daenerys. She nodded before sliding into the little space between he and his half-sister. He huffed, edging away from her, before he looked to the military commanders. “What are the estimates for remaining counts?”

“Half are gone,” Grey Worm said.

“For Dorne, as well.”

“Twenty-thousand,” Akho said. Missandei had been teaching the commanding blood riders the common tongue, but their accents were still thick and their words limited to battles.

“The North and Free Folk have less than one-thousand between us,” Jon said, scraping his hand through his beard, before taking off the dead’s markers.

Varys stepped forward, placing the Golden Company markers in Kings Landing before placing the last two (and one Lannister) at the Neck. “The Golden Company has arrived in King’s Landing, courtesy of the Greyjoy fleet, and we’ve lost the Neck. My birds whisper that they sent an infamous captain-major, Remus Ryker. They say he’s never lost a castle and is ruthless in ‘playing with his food’.”

Jorah stepped forward. “When the people find out what we have done for them. That we have saved them–”

“Cersei will make sure they don’t believe it,” Daenerys said. Her expression was calm as her voice hard; he had come to know if it as the time before the storm. “We will hit her hard. We will rip her out root and stem.”

“The objective here is to remove Cersei without destroying King’s Landing,” Tyrion reminder her, as they so often had to. Not the first time, Varys lamented they did not have a better choice. Only a family with a good name could stop the battle for the throne from falling into complete chaos. He would think he would know better by now, to believe picking a monarch was anything more than picking the lesser evil, but his disappointment gripped him firmly all the same.

“Thankfully, she’s losing allies by the day. Yara Greyjoy has retaken the Iron Islands in her queen’s name,” he supplied.

“No matter how many lords turn against her, as long as she sits on the Iron Throne, she can call herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. We need the capital,” Daenerys insisted.

“Are we only considering a frontal assault?” Lady Sansa asked, surprising everyone. She rarely spoke at war meetings, her knowledge as limited as his and Tyrion’s. When Daenerys whipped around to glare at her, she looked downward, tipping her head in perfectly practiced curtesy. “My apologies, Your Grace, but I’ve heard of your strategy in Essos. Sneaking a few good men into the city at night and earning victory by morning with little to no bloodshed. I’m sure King’s Landing has secret tunnels.”

Varys looked at the map again. It was true that the Red Keep had secret tunnels underneath – Tyrion had escaped through them, after all – but he would have to make sure that Cersei hadn’t collapsed them.

“No,” Daenerys said.

“No?” everyone stammered, torn between confused and angry.

“No,” Daenerys repeated, looking around the room as if she could bend them to her will with her will alone. He supposed it wasn’t her fault that tactic had likely worked most of her life, men falling over to make her happy when she looked at her with those famous violet eyes. She likely hadn’t even thought through her refusal, only refusing because it had come from Lady Stark. “That might’ve worked in Essos, but not here. The masters never respected me, and I will not give the lords and ladies an excuse to call me a coward. Not when I still have two dragons. Not when we could so easily win the battle. I want the people to see Cersei surrender. To admit defeat in front of thousands.”

“But, Your Grace–”

“I am done discussing this. I am a dragon. I will _be_ a dragon and take the Seven Kingdoms as Aegon the Conqueror did before me. By fire and blood.”

Varys cursed himself again, for ever thinking Daenerys would be any different.

Jon stepped forward, then, as perhaps their last hope. “Your Grace, if lives can be spared–”

“I am the _queen_,” Daenerys hissed. “I will not be held down by the opinions of small men. We will surround the city. If the Iron Fleet tries to ferry in more food, my children will destroy the ships. If the Lannisters and Golden Company attack, we’ll defeat them in the field.”

Tywin Lannister’s words rung through his head. _Any man who must say ‘I am the king’ is no true king._

“The men we have left are exhausted,” Lady Sansa said, not flinching when Daenerys turned back around. Jon Snow moved between them again, too foolish to understand that his actions would only anger Daenerys further. Still, the Red Wolf had earned her name, even if it wasn’t the most creative, and she stepped around her half-brother to continue, “I agree that we shouldn’t let them go home, but many of them are wounded. They’ll fight better if they have time to rest and recuperate.”

“How long do you suggest?” Tyrion asked before Daenerys could breathe more fire.

“I can’t say for certain, not without talking to the officers. But I wouldn’t think more than one moon.”

“I came north to fight alongside you at great cost to my armies and myself,” Daenerys said, walking until she was toe to toe with the woman. Both looking down on one another, and neither willing to be the first to surrender. “Now that the time has come for you to reciprocate, you want to _wait_?”

“It’s not just our people. It’s yours. Do you really want to throw them into a war they’re not ready to win?”

“I have a suggestion,” Lady Dayne said, gulping when everyone turned to her. Still, she stepped forward to point at the Neck. “There is no point in discussing any of this when our one passageway to the south is blocked, especially with the ice settling in. I doubt Lady Greyjoy can sail this far north, and you can’t burn them out with the women and children trapped there. My army is tired and wounded, but we’ve been in this war for a shorter time than any of you. And we are a southern army. We need to leave before the snow becomes too deep for us to march. Your Grace, please, let us march south to reclaim the Twins in your name.”

“An easy siege. I’m sure they don’t have enough food stored to hold out against her for long, and Riverrun is currently housing a small garrison of Lannister troops. The Golden Army will likely join them if they haven’t already, but it’s nothing our men can’t win against,” Tyrion said, pointing towards the castle when Daenerys’s brows scrunched. “I’m sure Edmure Tully will pledge to you the moment the battle is won out of thanks for giving him back his castle. Once we surround King’s Landing with every surviving great house, and the people see Cersei is our only enemy, they cast her aside.”

“Let us do this for you,” Grey Worm said.

“Will your forces be enough?” Jon Snow asked. When the Unsullied commander hesitated, he turned back to Daenerys. Only then did she step away from Sansa, moving back to the map and leaving the Lady of Winterfell in the shadows. A shame, really. She had been a slow learner in the capital, but he didn’t doubt her time with Petyr Baelish had been long enough she had still learned much. Listening in the shadows of people who think them greater than her was surely her domain by now. “The North will aide you. Riverrun will act as a post to send supplies–”

“No,” Daenerys said. “Akho will lead the Dothraki alongside the Unsullied. The people will see that we are not foreign savages but liberators.”

“And the North? The Knights of the Vale?” Jon asked, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“You claim you need rest. So, rest. Once Lady Dayne has won us back the Twins and my army your uncle’s freedom, the North will head to the Trident, where you’ll wait for the rest of the knights from the Vale,” Daenerys said. He supposed she was trying to keep any of Lady Stark’s people from spreading tales of her madness to her cousin, but it was far too late for that. Daenerys smiled at Jon, but it was more of a sneer. “But _you_ will join me on Rhaegal in destroying any food or supplies that attempts to reach the city. And if the North refuses to answer the call when the time comes, you burn.”

Lady Sansa paled, but he was surprised to see no fear in Jon’s eyes. He was a difficult man to figure out, since long before he reached Dragonstone. Whispers had claimed that the man had risen from the dead. That he was as honorable and naïve as his father. That the only time his anger struck was when his lady sister was involved. That his direwolf, the only surviving of the pups the family had found before coming south, accompanied Lady Sansa around the castle when it wasn’t hunting. Rarely the man himself, except when the two were together.

“If everything is settled, that is enough for today,” Daenerys said. “Lady Dayne, Torgo Nudho, we will meet tomorrow to discuss your journeys south.”

Varys turned to Tyrion, hoping his face conveyed his thoughts well enough for him to understand. The only victory they had won today was her not decimating King’s Landing. A small victory, in the grand scheme of things. She might not burn cities to the ground once everyone was under her rule, but her volatility would still be just as dangerous. He was not confident that her fire would not turn toward Lady Sansa, and the North would rebel yet again. The war was not anywhere near being over.

“My khaleesi, there is one more matter,” Jorah said, bowing to her as he spoke. The blind fool. Varys should’ve sent a woman to be his spy for Robert Baratheon all those years ago, or perhaps a sword swallower. But he had made the mistake of underestimating the dragon queen’s ability to make men fall at her feet. At least all of Westeros wasn’t so easily won. “The trials of Jaime Lannister, Bronn Blackwater, and Melisandre of Ashai.”

“Thank you, Ser Jorah. I had nearly forgotten,” Daenerys said. She folded her hands, glancing towards Kinvara before addressing the room. “I have already decided to pardon Lady Melisandre. As a Red Priestess favored by the Lord of Light, it is of the utmost importance for her survival. Lady Dayne, I would have her go south with you to establish the first Temple of the Lord of Light in Dorne.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but Lady Sansa gave him a look that instantly silenced him. He saw the confidence of someone with a plan. Jon Snow had promised Lady Melisandre’s execution, and Varys knew that Lady Sansa would make it happen, preferably without angering the dragon queen further.

“I would be honored,” Lady Dayne said, curtseying.

“It is customary for a trial to have three judges, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, grimacing underneath Daenerys’s glare. She likely thought herself to be the only one, no doubt. “You will of course be one of them. You only have to choose the other two.”

“As if it isn’t obvious,” Daenerys said, huffing. “Lord Snow and Lady Dayne.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” they both chimed, though neither looked very happy about it.

“The trials will take place tomorrow,” Daenerys announced, unsurprisingly. Her patience grew thinner by the day. “We will begin with the Kingslayer as soon as everyone’s broken fast. Torgo Nudho, Jorah, if you two would take guards with you and escort them to the dungeons.”

Both men bowed before leaving, and Daenerys walked yet again to her flames. “Kinvara, if I could keep you for a moment longer. Everyone else, leave us.”

Varys left happily, needing time to talk to Tyrion. But then Lady Elia stole him away before he could, leaving him to devise on his own for the time being. Lady Sansa fell into step next to him, discreetly handing him a scroll before walking away. He looked around for Jon, surprised he wasn’t with her, but less surprised when he saw him with Tormund Giantsbane.

He walked down the hall to his own guest quarters before opening the scroll.

_The Broken Tower. One hour._

No matter how many possibilities he could come up with for their meeting, he didn’t _know_. She could want to convince him to commit treason or merely gain another ally in the Queen’s Council. He had underestimated the Lady of Winterfell, but he knew better now. When whispers of Petyr Baelish’s death had reached him in Dragonstone, he had been surprised and impressed in his grief of losing his complicated friend. She had killed the cleverest man he knew without a single repercussion. Instead even gaining his knights for herself. He was intrigued with what she wanted to discuss, at the very least.

When it was finally time for Varys to meet with her, he dressed himself up in a Northern cloak, pulled up the hood, and walked through the castle with his head down. Lady Sansa was already there, her Tully red hair tucked underneath her own cloak.

“Lord Varys,” she greeted, tipping her chin to him.

“Lady Stark, I must confess, I was surprised to receive your invitation,” he said.

“They say that you serve no monarch, only the realm,” she said. “Is that true?”

“Why don’t you ask your brother? I hear he sees a great many things these days.”

Lady Stark chuckled. It wasn’t the light giggle he often heard from the young women in court, instead low and fark. She began to walk around the tower, her boots clicking with every step. “If only it was that simple. He doesn’t answer whatever we ask. Only if it’s ‘the right time’ or ‘part of the plan’, whatever that means,” she said, huffing as though the thought annoyed her. And why shouldn’t it? If he had a brother who knew and saw everything but refused to answer his questions, he’d grow peeved, too. “He only mentioned you once. Said he saw you in the Father’s cell. That it was you that told him to confess for my sake.”

“I did. I underestimated Joffrey. It’s one of my greatest regrets,” he said truthfully. There would’ve been no war if Joffrey had sent Ned Stark to the wall as they had arranged. So many lives could’ve been saved. “And yes, to answer your question. I serve the realm. But I’ve promised my queen that if I was unhappy with her that I would tell her rather than conspire behind her back.”

“And you think she would listen? Or burn you alive?” Lady Stark asked, but she already knew the answer.

“It’s our job as her advisors to steer her away from her temperament.”

“But what if we didn’t have to? What if someone sat on the Iron Throne that actually deserved the chair?” Lady Sansa asked. “Someone not with the right name, but with the right blood?”

Varys studied her. He would’ve thought she would want to keep her family in Winterfell, like Missandei had said, but she was proposing for her half-brother to take the throne. For whom else could it be? What other ruler would she trust? She had already promised loudly for everyone to hear that she would never go south again.

“Jon Snow kneeled to the dragon queen, and the man _is_ his father,” Varys said. He would be a good king consort. The ice to her fire. “He made an oath to her. He would never break it.”

“That much is true, which is why I need your help,” she said, stopping to look outside the tower’s small window before looking back at him. “I would ask for your discretion, but I know you’ll do whatever you think best no matter what you promise me. But I need your mind and your birds, so I’ll tell you a secret.

“His name isn’t Jon Snow. It’s Viserys Targaryen. His mother was Lyanna Stark and his father– his father by blood, at least, was Rhaegar Targaryen. They married in secret, and my aunt became the Second Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She died in childbirth, but she made my father promise to keep her son safe. When my father marched back north, he claimed Jon as his own to protect him from Robert Baratheon.”

“You’re saying that the honorable Eddard Stark lied to everyone,” Varys said, raising a brow. Even though her words only repeated a thought he himself had time at the news of Eddard Stark’s bastard. In the end, he had decided the babe was either truly Lord Stark’s, or not a threat, since the lord seemed so content to hide him so far north away.

“He did to protect his family. I would’ve thought you of all people would understand, Lord Varys,” she said, walking in a circle again. “There can be honor in lies, if it means protecting the innocent. The ones we love. Robert Baratheon would’ve slayed him if he’d of known, just like he slayed Elia Martell and her two babes. Do you think it would’ve been more honorable for him to let that happen to an innocent babe? To his sister’s only child?”

Varys watched her carefully. She was right.

“He is the true Targaryen heir and he’s the prince that was promised. The people would rally behind him,” she said, finally stopping in her circling. “But you’re right. Jon would never betray his oath to her unless we force his hand. I know every important house in the Seven Kingdoms, but they might think it a desperate attempt to keep Daenerys from the throne if it comes from me.”

“Ah, so am I to be the sacrificial lamb?” he asked.

“You’re the Spider. The Master of Whispers,” she said, quirking up a brow as her lips quirked into a half-smile. “Do you mean to tell me that you wouldn’t know how to spread the news without them knowing it was you? That your _little birds_ in King’s Landing wouldn’t be able to spread a little rumor?”

He chuckled, then. She knew she was right, and there were important matters to discuss before people noticed their absences. “Who else have you told?”

“Just you. Ser Barristan is helping us, too, even if he doesn’t know the whole of it. Otherwise, only Bran, Arya, Samwell Tarly… and Daenerys know,” she said, mouth pinching into a white line. “Jon told her. The _idiot_. I swear, there’s nothing worse than a man in love.”

“If what you say is true, then I’m surprised he’s still alive. I knew her to be in love, but I would’ve thought she loved the Iron Throne more,” Varys said, his own mind racing through the different possibilities of how they could make this happen with as little bloodshed as possible. 

A trickle of doubt also seeped in. He would’ve been a fool if it hadn’t. Afterall, hadn’t his birds reported that Lady Stark had hid in the Vale as Alayne Stone for _months_? She had more than adequate training in Petyr Baelish’s favorite pastime. Lying.

“He told her he won’t tell anyone, so I suppose she believes him. He made us promise not to tell anyone, too. He told her that only the Starks and Samwell Tarly know. When the whispers grow louder, she’ll know that it was me,” Lady Stark said, squaring her shoulders. “But when she threatens me, Jon will protect me. _Hopefully_, if she hasn’t dug her claws in him too deeply. And Rhaegal’s loyalty is shifting to him. Everyone can see it. Drogon is our main concern.”

“What are you proposing?” Varys asked, thinking much the same.

Varys would also have to consult his birds in the Citadel. See what Samwell Tarly had been doing before abandoning his post with them. He knew that the Jon Snow was close with him from their days in the Night’s Watch, but he would’ve expected Sansa to caution against telling him such a secret. He was closer to the Starks than Varys had thought. He needed to know more about the man.

Lady Stark smiled, then. Her first full smile he'd seen directed at anyone other than Jon Snow Snow. His suspicions about their relationship were only solidified with this new discovery. A Targaryen falling in love with a Stark might've lost them the throne, but now it would save them all.

“How long until people start looking for you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand now the paranoia seeps in more and Dany really just isn't making sense... thoughts on the Sansa/Varys team up?! I know she has the better history with Tyrion but she's also not BLIND. These people have been living in her castle. I always thought it would've been much smarter for her to tell Varys, rather than the person she thinks might try to hold onto Daenerys just for the sake of avoiding admitting a mistake.


	31. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin: I'm going to give the Starks two players with impressive magic that can be used against both the dead and the living. PS it's basically both character's entire plot lines 
> 
> D&D: yeah so we're just going to throw all of that out

When Jon and Sansa had told her what Daenerys had said during the war counsel, she had offered to kill her. But yet again Sansa had told her they couldn’t... this time with the word ‘yet’. The word had been a flood of relief. She hadn’t missed the strange look on Jon’s face at that, but she hadn’t been able to decipher it yet either. She would have to probe him, asking without being too direct to scare him away. But there was no time for that yet. Now, Sansa had given her a mission.

It was why she wore the face of the servant girl yet again. Mya, the servant girl who always brought Elia her supper, and her bath water, too, whenever it was called for. Arya had been happy to learn that her friend – for she was that, even if Arya would kill her in a heartbeat to protect her family – was just as kind to servants as she was to lords and ladies.

The two Dornishmen outside her room nodded at her, familiar with her now after so many weeks in Winterfell. She said her hellos before knocking, balancing the tray on her hip.

“Come in,” Elia called.

Mya entered the room, careful to not drop the tray of food as she moved around to close the door. “Pigeon pie, milady,” she said by way of greeting.

“Ah, yes. The same as it was last night, and the night– oh wait, no. That was the feast before the battle. We actually had real food then,” Lady Dayne said. She had circles underneath her eyes, and her temples were red, as though she’d been rubbing them. “Thank you, Mya.”

“Are you alright, milady?” Mya asked as she set the tray down. Lady Dayne took her place at the table as she went about laying everything just right. “Forgive me. I know it’s not my place to ask, but you look like you haven’t slept in a fortnight.”

“What a lovely way to tell me I look terrible.” The lady laughed, leaning back in her chair as she rubbed at her temples, confirming Mya’s suspicions. She looked entirely too happy when Mya handed her the wine and chugged it in three solid gulps. She handed her back the goblet. “Would you get me another goblet? And please, get yourself one, too, and join me.”

Mya did as she was bid, pleased with how easily this was all going. 

Lady Dayne waited until she was seated to continue, “I believe my army will be leaving within a sennight.”

“But milady! Your hand!” Mya protested, eyes wide with worry. The lady only complained about her missing three digits when she was eating. Said she was used to drinking with one hand and eating with the other, so she hated to have to do one at a time. But otherwise, Mya and Clay and Desmond and Arya and all her other faces had only seen her be brave about it. Same with her ribs. “And your side! The stitches. They’ll fester and you’ll die before you even reach King’s Landing.”

“Don’t worry about me, Mya,” Lady Dayne said as she took a large bite of the pie. She chewed as she looked at the servant girl thoughtfully. “My best friend is the best healer in the Seven Kingdoms. She says I can remove the stitches in a fortnight, maybe a little longer now with the journey. But they’ll be out before I reach the Neck, and she’ll keep away infection with her magical balms. Besides, sieges are different. If we can convince the Lannisters to bend the knee and join Ser Jaime–”

Lady Dayne frowned then, and Arya knew why. For everything she had learned. Everything the Faceless Men had taught her – everything Sansa had taught her – it was almost too easy to get Elia to talk about what she needed, without hardly any leading. The woman just loved to talk, and she wore her emotions on her sleeve.

“Milady?” Mya prompted when the lady remained quiet.

“It’s nothing. I’m sure you’ve heard of the trials tomorrow,” Lady Dayne said, suddenly looking as if she had aged years in a matter of seconds. “And I’m sure you don’t care for either man. Will probably be happy to watch them burn. But I– I don’t know.”

“You think them guilty?”

“I’ll decide that tomorrow,” Lady Dayne said. _Lie_. But about Jaime or Bronn? Or both? “Do you not?”

“Well, I– it’s not my place to decide such things,” Mya said, looking to the table again as she traced the edge of her untouched wine.

“You’re not sentencing them, Mya. And I’d like to hear your opinion.”

Mya fidgeted in her seat, finally taking a sip of her wine for liquid courage before looking back to the lady. “I know the Lannisters have been at war with the Starks for years, but– well, he fought bravely against the dead. And betrayed his sister by coming here. I don’t know if good wipes clean the bad in the eyes of the gods, but… he seems like a better man now, ‘s all.”

“And what about his crime against House Targaryen? Killing the king he was sworn to protect?”

“The _Mad King_ murdered Lord Rickard and Brandon Stark,” Mya hissed. “Killing him could never be a sin.”

“Mm,” Lady Dayne said, taking another bite of her pie. She chewed slowly, her eyes squinting as she thought over what Mya had said. “And what about Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?”

“The man who snuck into your army?” Mya asked. Sansa had no personal stake in saving him, but she still didn’t want him to die. No matter how much the world had hardened her sister, she still kept her soft heart. Even if she claimed otherwise. “What did he do?”

“He snuck into my army with the intention of killing the Lannisters for their sister.”

“But instead he fought for the living,” Mya said. She fidgeted again and took another cautious sip of wine. She looked up at the southern lady. Her eyes had always been disorienting. The blue always seemed as cold as ice and the purple a storm of emotions. She looked away from them back to goblet.

“I know you have more to say. Go on, then,” Lady Dayne said. She finished the last bite of the pie, the piece small even for the important princess, and shoved away her empty plate. “If you think both men should live, I won’t think any less of you. I admire a woman who’s capable of mercy against her enemies.”

Despite the princess’s probing, her eyes were glazed over like a woman deep in thought. She was no longer listening to their conversation. Was it Bronn who she had decided on already?

“Well, it’s just that…” Mya began, before taking another sip of wine. She cleared her throat before continuing, “The only crime he actually committed was sneaking into your army, then. ‘sn’t it? Execution seems like a bit of an overreaction.”

“Mm,” Lady Dayne said again, refusing to commit. Mya studied her, trying to determine which way she was leaning. She couldn’t push more without being suspicious, but she wasn’t sure she had to… if she had to guess, the lady would declare them both innocent.

“Well, I should get going. I still have to bring dinner to another dozen folks,” Mya said, standing up and wiping her skirt down. “Unless you need anything else, milady?”

“No, thank you. You’ve already been so helpful, as always,” Lady Dayne said.

Mya curtsied before leaving the room. She bid both guard farewell before heading towards the guest hall’s exit. When she reached outside,

She became Arya Stark of Winterfell once she reached the Great Keep, and she grinned into the cold nipping at her heels as the doors closed behind her. Even after years in the uncomfortable heat of Braavos, she had been happy to learn that her blood had stayed thick.

Pulling off the skirt so she was left in only the trousers underneath, Arya folded the garment neatly as she continued walking. She didn’t stop until she reached the lord’s chambers. Brienne was posted at the door, confirming Sansa was inside, and Arya tipped her chin in greeting before slipping inside without knocking. Her sister was sitting at the desk in the corner of the room, mulling on her lip as she read a scroll.

“Bad news?” Arya asked, making Sansa jump.

“Gods, Arya, I’ll never get used to that,” Sansa said, before shaking her head and sticking out the scroll. “Here, read it.”

Arya sat down across from her, leaning back and propping her leg on the desk. Sansa immediately shooed her off, making her chuckle. “Or you could just summarize the important parts.”

Sansa smiled at her. She only ever did so freely when it was just their pack, and Arya cursed the world again for daring to wrong them all so many times and so brutally.

“It’s from King’s Landing. It was meant for Littlefinger,” Sansa said, rolling her lips again. She had a habit of calling him Petyr when she was scheming. But what would anyone want with a dead person? “It doesn’t say much of anything, but it mentions a ‘rumor’ that he had been killed by us. Do you still have his face?”

“I do,” Arya confirmed. She didn’t think they would have the chance to use it, but it was always better to be safe. 

“Good,” Sansa said, nodding before looking at her sadly. “I have another mission for you, but it’ll take you away from us for a while.”

Arya leaned forward, resting her elbows on her spread legs. “If it will protect our family, I’ll do it.”

“I know you will,” Sansa said, smile soft. She stood up, walking around her desk until she stood right in front of her. “I need you to go to King’s Landing. I need you to meet with Cersei and convince her that you spread the rumors of your own death. That Littlefinger only declared for House Stark because he thought I would give him Winterfell. That I stole the Knights of the Vale from him, so he wants me dead, too. Bran will tell you everything you need to know to play him well, but before that, we have to meet with him and Jon in the godswood.”

Knowing she would have time to process and think through her new mission later, Arya jumped up, folding her hands behind her back as Sansa stood up and wiped at her skirt before they walked side by side out towards the godswood. As Arya eyed her pretty sister from the corner of her eye, she thought of when they had first reunited, neither trusting and both fearing one another. They both hid the fear well. It was only when Arya threatened to take her face that Sansa’s mask had slipped. But then she’d steeled herself once more and told her that the Starks needed every last wolf they could get. She watched her probe at Bran until he revealed all of Littlefinger’s crimes against their family. Arya had watched in silent awe as Sansa worked out how they would trick him, fully seeing her cleverness for the first time.

It wasn’t until much afterwards that Sansa had told her why her words about taking her face had _truly_ frightened her. Joffrey ordering his men to beat and humiliate her, only sparing her face because he ‘liked her pretty’. Ramsay raping her while slicing and burning scars into her skin, only sparing her face because he needed the face of Eddard Stark’s daughter. Arya had never felt such guilt, and she swore to Sansa that she would slaughter anyone who threatened them again like pigs. She had confessed to killing the Freys and had been shocked when Sansa didn’t look at her with judgement or fear. After confirming that Arya hadn’t murdered the women or children innocent of the men’s crimes, Sansa had only nodded. 

“Good. I am glad the last thing they saw was a Stark,” she had said, echoing Arya’s own words to Walder Frey.

As soon as the sisters entered the godswood, the air shifted. Even with five armies in their castle, all knew better than to enter the holy ground. These trees belonged to the Starks and only them. The wind picked up, shooting a cool breeze through the branches. The leaves bristled in a way that almost sounded like whispers. According to Bran, they were, if she only listened hard enough.

They neared the weirwood tree, and both women stopped. Bran was sitting in his wheelchair with white eyes, in some vision or animal some place far away. But it was Jon that stopped them both in their tracks. He was sitting on the largest root, wiping down Longclaw with a handkerchief. A mirror image of their father. She would’ve cried if she still knew how.

Sansa cleared her throat, making Jon’s eyes snap up to them, before she continued forward. Hands still folded behind her back, Arya hopped to follow her as she studied their brother closer. His hair was loose from its usual tie, making him look more wild, and he was humming with nervous energy.

Bran’s eyes suddenly flashed back to their light Tully blue, but they were still glazed in the way that always made her think he was still in another place. Or maybe somehow torn between two.

She waited for someone to start speaking, still not sure which one had called them all together. Jon’s constant fidgeting made her think him at first, but then Sansa had moved to sit down next to him on the root. Gone was the girl who would never dream of getting her dress dirty, replaced with a woman who only concerned about their brother, rubbing his back soothingly.

Arya still didn’t know what to make of the two. When she had first heard from Hot Pie that the two had taken back Winterfell together, she had thought they would be at each other’s throats. She had then heard from Sansa that the two were much closer, though argued constantly. And finally, she had seen them when Jon returned to them. The lingering glances, the light touches. They were certainly closer, but something about it seemed wrong. At first Arya had thought it was just her own jealousy at having to share her favorite brother, but it wasn’t that. She at first was going to play the Game of Faces, but then decided against it. This was her family. They had to trust one another.

“Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on? I’m not Bran. I don’t just _know_ things,” she said.

Her bad attempt at a joke made Sansa smirk and Jon cough – or was it a laugh? Only Bran stayed stoic. 

Jon stood up, helping their sister to stand, too, before they moved in a tight circle around Bran. These moments were her favorite. Her pack was together, and together they would survive anything. Death would not take them from her today or any day.

“I know who my mother is,” Jon said. Sansa pinched his arm, possibly for just diving into the heart of the matter, but Arya only beamed. She looked around as if the woman would suddenly appear from behind the trees.

When he didn’t continue, she quirked up her brow. “Bran told you?”

“Aye, he and Sam figured it out,” he said, clearing his throat. She was confused why Bran couldn’t just look into the past and tell him, but then maybe it was more complicated than that. She still didn’t understand how his visions work.

“My mother was Lyanna Stark. My father was Rhaegar Targaryen. He took Lyanna, my mother, as his second wife before… my real name is Viserys Targaryen.”

Arya’s eyebrows shot up to her scalp. That wasn’t at all what she had expected him to say. That their father had lied… but no. He would lie to protect their family. He knew that wolves had to protect their pack.

“You’re still Jon. You’re still our brother,” she said firmly.

Perhaps she should’ve had a larger reaction, but in this moment, she knew Jon needed to see that it really didn’t matter. And besides, a girl had long ago stopped being able to be surprised. To really feel anything deeply at all. Shock and denial only slowed one down from adjusting and counteracting.

His shoulders sagged in relief, and Sansa smiled, eyebrows raised as if saying ‘see? I told you so.’

“Wait, you told Sansa before me?” Arya said, her cheeks beginning to warm in her anger. It was childish, her jealousy. She knew that. It was good that her siblings had mended their old wounds so they could defend their family, but… in all her fondest memories of Winterfell, she was with Jon. Sharing in the misery of their two overachieving siblings, laughing at them when they could. But now everything was so different. “I’m the last to know?”

“He didn’t mean to, Arya,” Sansa said, reminding her just how different things were yet again in coming to his defense. “We were having an… argument and he just… but none of that matters now. We all know, and we all agree that Jon is still a Stark.”

“He’ll have to be a Targaryen if you’re planning on putting him on that throne,” Arya said, knowing her sister. This was the reason Sansa had added ‘yet’ to them killing Daenerys. Jon would be king. Sansa wouldn’t want it for herself. She no longer sought thrones for the romance of the thing, only in that there was safety in control. And anyone would be better than that silver-haired cunt.

“I don’t want it,” Jon said, shaking his head. “I don’t want _any_ of this, except–” His eyes flickered to Sansa before softening. And suddenly everything else was making sense, too. 

Her first reaction was to scream at them. To shout in their faces how they were just as bad as the enemy. But she had to remind herself that wasn’t true. The two had never been close in childhood. They had met again as strangers. And then as cousins. If anything, she was glad. Sansa would protect their bone-headed brother from the politically savage, and Jon would protect her if it ever came to blows. The idea still left a sour taste in her mouth, but the need for her family to be safe and happy was stronger.

“We have a plan that’s already been set in motion,” Sansa said, cheeks now flushed redder. She must’ve seen that Arya put the pieces together. “Jon doesn’t want the Iron Throne, so we’re going to honor that, since there’s another way… We’re going to melt it down or throw it into Blackwater Bay or– however it happens, the Seven Kingdoms will become independent from each other once more.”

“With you as the North’s queen,” Arya said without any malice. When they just looked at her and Jon almost looking ready to defend Sansa, Arya tried to smile. “What? The lords won’t take Jon as the ruler after he bent the knee to her.”

“No. Instead they’ll see a Targaryen kneeling and pledging fealty to a Stark,” Sansa said, smirking. “We’re going to play it so they think this was our plan all along, so that they know he was always loyal to us. But for this to work, we need other kingdoms to join us in the war to come. After you’re done in King’s Landing, I would have you go to Storm’s End to talk to Gendry. He’ll listen to you.”

Arya grit her teeth, knowing what her sister was thinking. Even with their night before the battle, she knew it could never be more than that. If he was a random man’s bastard, it would’ve been better. “I won’t become a lady, Sansa. That isn’t me.”

“I’m not asking you to marry him unless that’s what you decide. Do you really think I would force marriage on _anyone_?” Sansa asked, making Arya feel guilty again. Thrice engaged, twice married, once bedded. Her sister knew the shackles of marriage too well. “You’re the only one I can trust who he’ll listen to. Once Daenerys gets her cursed chair, I need you to go to him. Help him see that no one will ever be safe with her as queen. After that, it’ll be a quick trek to Dorne, but that will be trickier to play right…”

“Aye, I’ll do whatever I have to do for our family. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now Arya knows too! About Jon's parentage AND her siblings' feelings for each other (because as awkward as it is with the two in love, that's GOT dynamics for you). And I know it might seem like an under-reaction, but this could be considered part-denial and part-Faceless Man syndrome. Plus Arya has always stricken me as a character who cares for very little, but what she does care about, she cares about fiercely. Would probably be different if they were openly affectionate in front of her, but really, her family is still looking out for one another, and that's all she cares about in the end.
> 
> ALSO: guess who finally started the Drabble Collection! I added it as Part 2 to this series... I know I've mentioned starting it a couple times, but any time I did write, I really wanted to focus on making sure I got THIS story out for you. But now that I am in a good place for this one, I'll be writing those whenever the inspiration strikes me. For example, the first one is a certain conversation between Arya, Sansa and Bran mentioned in this chapter ;)


	32. Brienne

When the Unsullied guards brought Jaime into the Great Hall, everyone was uncharacteristically quiet. Maybe that was the reason she could hear her pounding heart so clearly. The second man she had ever loved, and the second she would have to watch die… but no, Sansa had promised her that she would do everything she could to save him. She didn’t believe Lady Dayne would name him guilty, but if she did, they would hide him in the crypts until they could safely sneak him out to safety.

Once he was brought to the front of the hall, the Unsullied moved behind the front table to flank their queen. She was dressed in grey furs that crossed one another in an Essosi fashion. Her lips were pressed into a white line as she looked at Jaime. When she stood, the already scorching air in the hall thickened tenfold.

“I, Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and _Mother of Dragons_ sit as judge on the trials today of Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Lion Sword. With me, Lord Jon of House Stark and Princess Elia of House Dayne will also sit as judges.”

Both Jon Snow and Lady Dayne joined Daenerys at the platform, sitting on either side of her behind the otherwise empty table.

The prosecuting witnesses would go first, and the defending witnesses would follow. Lady Sansa asked her to go first for the defense and promised her that the best witnesses the castle had to offer would follow convince her he was innocent, assuming Jaime’s own testimony did not sway the southern princess. Brienne had never told anyone what Jaime shared about why he had killed the Mad King, but she had told her lady that the story was both honorable and _persuasive_.

“Jaime of House Lannister,” Daenerys continued, nostrils flaring as she looked at the man with hatred. For claiming to know her father was mad, she was overly eager to kill the man that stopped him from murdering a million people. “You stand accused of regicide and both false imprisonment and later execution of Lord Eddard Stark. How do you plea?”

“I did arrest Lord Eddard once he confessed to imprisoning my brother, but I did not execute him. He was supposed to take the black, last I heard, but then King Joffrey changed his mind, little shit that he was,” Jaime said. He had told her how he loved all of his children – Myrcella being his favorite – but he knew that Joffrey was a monster. He blamed Cersei for rewarding his violence as a child, and himself for standing aside and doing nothing. Here, now, trying to win the hall to his side, he did nothing to hide that. “And everyone knows that I killed the Mad King. Stabbed the bastard in the back and would again.”

“So, you plea guilty, then? To murdering the man that you were sworn to protect?” Daenerys asked, violet eyes flashing. 

Jaime began his tale of why he did what he did, but Brienne did not pay any attention to his words. She had heard them all before. Instead, she studied Lady Dayne. The woman had grown better at schooling her features, but she was nowhere near the skill of the Stark sisters. And thanks to the young wolves, Brienne had gotten all the better at looking for the small signs.

The princess’s brows scrunched together briefly in her confusion before flattening again. The quiver of her bottom lip before she pressed her mouth into a line. The twitch of her violet eye every time Jaime repeated the Mad King’s words, “Burn them all.”

When he finished his tale, she turned to study the faces of those in the hall. Some were unabashed in their shock, jaws slacked as they stared in disbelief. Others were red in anger, glaring harshly at the dragon queen. It wasn’t until she looked back at the so-called queen that she realized she wasn’t surprised by Jaime’s story. She had heard the story before. Perhaps from Tyrion.

Daenerys swallowed as she looked out at the crowd, the muscle in her neck ticking when she saw how his story had moved them. Her anger only confirmed Lady Stark’s words. She was more like her father than anyone wanted to admit.

“The crown calls its first witness,” she said.

It was Varys that stood forward first. He told the story that everyone already knew, if slightly exaggerated. How after he killed the Mad King he sat on the throne, only being _forced_ off by the honorable Eddard Stark. He says how he killed the king after tricking the Mad King into letting his father’s armies into the city to complete the rebellion.

Kinvara stepped up next, but Lady Hutter jumped up from chair, shouting, “You have only been in Westeros for a few months, and you dare try to make witness to something that happened years ago?”

“I was not here. You are correct, my lady,” Kinvara said, smile wide. She had likely expected such a response because, well… what other response was there? “But the Lord of Light shows me much. I saw the Starks victory for their home in the flames when I was an ocean away, as clearly as I saw our victory against the dead within the same walls.”

“Aye, and was it your precious flames that told you your red priestess was innocent without a trial?” Lady Hutter pushed, earning several murmurs of agreement from Northmen, Valemen, and even a few Unsullied and Dothraki. “Tell me, why is it only your red women free from the laws of gods and men? I was under the impression servants of gods – old, new, green, and red alike – were the ones that were supposed to follow them to the letter. But I only see you write the laws, do not follow them yourselves, and then burn the people that follow your example. You heard what the Mad King said. ‘Burn them all’… now you say the same.”

“Enough!” Jon Snow said, slamming his fist on the table and silencing his men and women all at once. “Kinvara is not on trial. You will let her bare her witness. Any complaints will be dealt with later. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lord,” Lady Hutter said, bowing her head, even as her jaw still flexed in anger, before sitting back down. A few lords grumbled, but everyone had mostly settled back down.

“Thank you, Lord Snow,” Kinvara said. She turned back to the table before continuing her witness. How she saw Jaime win in combat against Lord Stark only because his man sliced him in the leg from behind. How he used Edmure Tully to trick them into giving the Lannisters back Riverrun by threatening his wife and babe.

When she finished, a Dothraki stood forward to say how they had destroyed his army because the man had killed the Queen of Thorns, his witness translated by Lady Missandei.

But then, finally, it was time for the defense.

Brienne stepped forward then, looking to Lady Sansa for encouragement before stopping in front of the dragon queen. She told the stories of when they were on the road. Of all the kind and honorable things he did. She repeated how he armed her to save Ladies Sansa and Arya to keep his word with Catelyn Stark, even after the woman’s death and there was no one to hold him to that promise.

After her, it was Lord Royce’s turn. He told the story of how Petyr Baelish lied to House Stark. That he was responsible for the feud between Houses Stark and Lannister. That Catelyn Stark only kidnapped Lord Tyrion because of his lies, and that Jaime Lannister only arrested Lord Stark as a result of that. He was a victim of Littlefinger’s manipulations the same as the Starks.

But the room was well and truly shocked into silence when Lady Sansa herself stood up to take witness. She looked around the room with her practiced mask, waiting patiently for the murmurs to quiet as the dragon queen seethed from her chair.

“I still remember the first time I met Jaime Lannister. He came with King Robert to bring me to King’s Landing with my father. _That_ man would deserve to die, it’s true, but _he_ is no longer that man,” Lady Sansa said, looking at the knight in question for a moment. She then looked straight at Daenerys, the defiance in her gaze making her half-brother shift with worry. Brienne was torn between wanting to fall to her knees in thanks and trying to convince her to run away somewhere that nobody could ever find or harm her. “You yourself said that your father was an evil man. A monarch forfeits their right to their crown – to their people’s loyalty – when they threaten to kill the innocent. When they seek the death and destruction of the very people they are charged to protect. To kill him for what he did would be standing behind what your father wanted to do. And Ser Jaime might’ve broken his oath as Kingsguard by killing the Mad King, but in doing so he fulfilled his oath as a knight to be just and defend the innocent. He was trapped within his oath, both breaking it and fulfilling it no matter what he did.”

“And as for the charge of executing my father, if Joffrey or Cersei were standing there, I would show them _exactly_ what happens when you kill a wolf, but Ser Jaime wasn’t even in the city. Just as we do not hold you accountable for your father’s crime, we cannot hold him accountable for his son or sister’s.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard that Lannisters always pay their debts, Your Grace. I know that I cannot speak for my house or kingdom, but I believe that Ser Jaime already paid his debts to the North when he turned his back on his poisonous sister and marched north to defend the living.”

With her speech made, Lady Sansa returned to her seat in the front of one of the hall’s long tables. Everyone stayed deathly quiet, listening to the weight of her words. She had backed Daenerys into a corner. To name him guilty was to declare she was just like her father, but the queen would likely think to name him innocent as surrender. But it wasn’t the queen she was trying to convince.

Daenerys stood up, cheeks stained red with her anger. “I am not a fool, Lady Stark. I know what you are trying to do. I know many wish to answer his injustice with mercy, but that is not the queen I wish to be. I will answer injustice with _justice_. The crimes of my father do not take away from the crimes of the man in front of me,” she said between gritted teeth. Then, while looking between both Ser Jaime and Lady Sansa with building hatred, she seethed. “Ser Jaime Lannister, I find you guilty.”

She looked at her Unsullied guards as if she expected them to take him to be executed right then, but they and the rest of the room only looked to Jon Snow.

Jon cleared his throat, knuckles white as his hands clutched each other atop the table. Daenerys spun to him, the muscle in her neck ticking.

“Ser Jaime… I find you to be innocent of the crimes charged against you,” he said quietly but firmly. 

Daenerys did not look surprised, but Brienne knew if she could breathe fire as her ‘children’ could, that Jon Snow would be a pile of ash before her. But then she turned to the Princess of Dorne, the only wild card in the trial. The only judge whose mind wasn’t already made up.

Brienne tried to read the woman as she looked at Jaime. She was torn, that much was clear, _but_ _which way was she leaning_? Would she command him to die? The hall grew fuzzy in front of her, and Brienne realized that she was holding her breath. She exhaled quietly before taking a deep breath, her lungs burning as her heart stayed frozen in her chest. Waiting to see if it would break.

Finally, Lady Dayne cleared her throat. She stayed staring at Jaime, refusing to meet her queen’s gaze or Lady Sansa’s or anyone else in the room.

“Ser Jaime of House Lannister,” she said. But her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. It was as if she was stretching her decision for the sole purpose of torturing everyone in the hall. “I– I find you to be innocent of the crimes charged against you.”

People started shouting, some in agreement and some in anger, but Brienne couldn’t hear any of it. All she could think was, _He’s going to live. Jaime isn’t going to be burned alive. He’s going to live._

Brienne didn’t snap out of her giddy daze as the chains were removed from Jaime’s wrists or even when they handed him back his sword. It wasn’t until he stepped in front of Lady Sansa and fell to his knees, with his sword now on the floor in front of him, that she was thrown back to reality.

“Lady Sansa, I offer you my services as your sworn sword. I will shield your back and keep your council and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Brienne’s mouth fell open. He had not told her– made _any_ indication that he would pledge his life to Lady Sansa… but it made sense. He had come to the North to become an honorable man who kept his oaths and defended the innocent. How better than to do that then to defend the woman who would rule her people with justice and honor?

Lady Sansa looked around the room, glancing at Brienne then her half-brother and then to Yohn Royce, before finally looking to Jaime. Her words instantly deflated any worry left in Brienne’s system. “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new… Arise.”

When Jaime stood up, she leaned in to whisper something that Brienne couldn’t quite make out, but sounded like something along the lines of “Rename your sword, Ser.”

If Brienne had thought Daenerys dangerous before, the fury taking over her entire little body was enough to freeze her blood to ice. And she knew as well as she knew that the sky was blue that Daenerys Targaryen was going to try to kill Lady Sansa. Her lady would suspect it too of course, especially after everything that had just happened, but she was more concerned with protecting her family than herself. It was up to Brienne – and now Jaime – to protect her. Both the halves of Ice would defend Lady Sansa until their dying breathes.

“Torgo Nudho,” Daenerys hissed, glaring at Lady Sansa until the woman retook her place at the table, now with Jaime moving to stand next to Brienne at the lady’s other shoulder. “Bring Bronn of the Blackwater for his trial.”

Brienne watched as the Unsullied commander bowed before turning to leave the hall with some of his men. The cutthroat’s chance of survival was even less than Jaime’s, and it only decreased further at the other’s proclaimed innocence. The chance that the dragon queen would let both of the trials end without someone being burned alive was next to none. Either Jon or Lady Elia would likely name him guilty if only to appease their queen.

But the minutes passed, and the Unsullied did not return. It should’ve taken them no more than five minutes to retrieve Ser Bronn. As each minute stretched into the next, the people grew more and more restless. What was taking them so long?

Finally, Grey Worm returned, but his men were without the cutthroat. 

Immediately, Daenerys jumped up. “What is the meaning of this? What is going on?”

The Unsullied Commander glanced between the three judges before looking back to his queen, resignation clear. “He has escaped his cell.” The hall jumped into an uproar, but he persisted, “I have sent a dozen Dothraki in each direction to recapture him.”

The dragon queen wasn’t satisfied. She declared she would ride Drogon to find him. That no horse could outrun a dragon. With her decision made, everyone else jumped up, the chaos erupting like wildfire. But throughout all of it, Brienne noticed something very odd.

Lady Elia was trying very hard not to smile, and Lady Ladybright was nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooo Ser Jaime is now officially Team Stark! Pledged to an honorable lady and forever bound to stay near the woman he loves... hopefully Sansa didn't make Daenerys too angry though ;) and Bronn escaped! I know I've hinted at where he stands with the Dornish, but you'll get to see more of that development in my Drabble Collection for the story :)
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Your comments keep me going


	33. Daenerys

Daenerys stared into the flames, desperate to see visions from the Red God. They always came so easily when Kinvara was there to guide her, but they disappeared like smoke in the wind whenever the woman wasn’t around. Missandei was sitting next to her, sewing together a new dress for herself for when they travelled back south. She had not asked her where she learned the new skill, guessing it was from one of the smallfolk women she now met with whenever Daenerys didn’t need her. The Northerners had been more welcoming to both Missandei and Grey Worm since Jon had assigned her commander to help him train the children for their war for her throne.

A knock at the door interrupted them, and she huffed in frustration. Surely, it was Tyrion or Varys coming to tell her all the things they thought her doing wrong. If she couldn’t find Bronn, no one could. And the Dothraki that had chased after him had returned with the beginnings of a Northern sickness called the cold, so she couldn’t risk sending anyone else. The snake had somehow escaped the queen’s justice… for now. She had hoped for an evening of peace after returning to the castle, but queens could never afford such luxury. 

“Come in,” she said.

When she saw that it was Jon, she nearly jumped towards him until she remembered herself. It was _she_ that was in the control of their affair, not him. He would be consort, and she the queen. It would not be good for him to see how much she missed him since the morning’s trials.

Since the weight of the dead had been taken from his shoulders, he had visited her more and more. The past two days they had broken their fasts together and spent the rest of the day walking around the castle, save when Arya or Bran insisted on stealing him away. He and Sansa had had some argument after the war counsel the day before, of what he would not share, but she didn’t care for the reason. She was happy to have to share him with one less person. He still denied visiting her at night, afraid of what his pathetic Northern lords would think. But once her throne was won, they would announce their betrothal and she would never have to share him with anyone ever again.

“Your Grace, I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Jon said, head low in respect. “But I need to speak with you.”

“Of course, Jon,” she said, nodding to Missandei for her to leave them alone. Her friend gave her a small, encouraging smile before leaving them alone.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Daenerys stood up. His hands immediately wound around her waist when she stepped towards him. For whatever his lack of words clawed at her insecurities, his body always spoke for him. The way he shivered with want underneath her touch. The way his fingers dug into her waist as she kissed him.

When she pulled apart from him, though, she saw guilt as he winced away from her. Immediately, the spark he ignited in her cooled. “What is it?” she asked, her throat tightening in her rising anger. “Tell me.”

“What has Ser Barristan told you about your brother, Rhaegar?” he asked instead of answering her.

“That he was decent and kind,” she said, trying to see what he was hiding in his always expressionate grey eyes. “He liked to sing and gave money to poor children… but that he raped your aunt. I liked to think he was a good man like Ser Barristan claims, but… why do you ask?”

“He didn’t rape her. He loved her and she loved him,” Jon said. He removed his hands from her waist to pull her hands into his, shaking even as they held onto her. “After Rhaegar fell on the Trident, she had a son – _Rhaegar’s_ son. Lyanna knew that Robert would have murdered… the baby if he ever found. So, the last thing she did, as she bled to death on her birthing bed, was give the baby boy to her brother, Ned Stark, to keep him safe. And to keep his promise, Ned Stark lied to everyone. He raised the babe as his bastard.”

His words sent a wave of nausea rolling through her stomach as she started to piece together what he was saying. She tried to pull her hands back, but he only gripped her harder.

“My name… my real name is Viserys Sand.”

Daenerys yanked herself from his grip and slapped him. How dare he! How dare he call himself her brother’s name and make up such lies! “That’s impossible,” she seethed.

“I wish it were,” he said, face again to the floor.

“Bran. He saw it.” The bloody cripple making up such lies… he was trying to tear her and Jon apart. That must be it. She would even bet that Sansa had put him up to it. “And then Sam read in a High Septon’s diary how he wed… how he wed my parents in secret.”

“A secret no one in the world knew except your brother and best friend. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?” she asked. He had to see reason. She would make him see.

“It’s true, Dany. I know it is,” Jon said. His cheeks were blotting red and he was still looking at the floor, refusing to meet her eye.

“If it were true, it would make you the last male heir of House Targaryen. You’d have a claim to the Iron Throne,” Daenerys said. She tried to keep the malice out of her voice. It was not his fault that the people he loved were lying to him.

“I don’t want it,” Jon said. He looked up at her again and pulled her back to him. She let him, reminding herself again and again it wasn’t his fault. She would not let them take her throne. She would not let them take Jon.

“It doesn’t matter what you want. You didn’t want to be King in the North,” she said, cupping his face. “What happens when they demand you press your claim and take what’s mine?”

“I’ll refuse. You are my queen!” he said, looking between her eyes desperately. “Please, I don’t know what else to say.”

“You can say nothing to anyone, ever. Never tell them who you really are. Swear your brother and Samwell Tarly to secrecy and tell no one else, or it will take on a life of its own and you won’t be able to control it or what it does to people. No matter how many times you bend the knee.”

“I have to tell Sansa and Arya,” Jon said. He turned to kiss the palm still holding his face. “_Please_, they’re my family.”

His words made her anger start ticking up her spine, but then she realized that he had come to her first. He was asking her permission. If she told him no, he wouldn’t. But he would resent her for it, so she had to make him understand. If what Bran and Samwell claimed was true…

“Sansa will want me gone and you on the Iron Throne,” Daenerys said. She could understand it, even if her ire. The girl had gone through her own horrors. She likely thought that she could control Jon completely with Daenerys out of the way, and there was safety in control. But the throne was not hers to take. “She’s not the girl you grew up with. Not after what she’s seen. Not after what they’ve done to her.”

“I owe them the truth,” Jon said. He matched her own pose now, cupping her cheeks with his cool fingers before resting his forehead against hers. “You are my queen. Nothing will change that. And they are my family. We can live together. All of us, peacefully.”

“We can. I’ve just told you how,” Daenerys insisted, frantic for him to see the truth.

“She won’t betray me. I’ll make sure she knows that if she does, I’ll flee to Essos to live out the rest of my days in exile,” Jon said, pulling her in for a chaste but passionate kiss. “No one can make me sit on that throne.”

Daenerys sighed, moving so that she could embrace him. She could feel his frantic heartbeat beneath his leather, and she reminded herself that he was a man of his word. As much as she wanted to rule Westeros with him by her side, she could do it without him. She had survived through much worse than Cersei, after all. If he truly wanted to tell his sisters, then she would let him bear the consequences of that decision.

“Very well,” she whispered into his chest, and immediately his shoulders sagged with relief. “But when she betrays you, as I know she will, you will leave Westeros and you may never return. It is only because I love you that you will live at all.”

Jon sucked in a breath before looking down at her with wide eyes. “You love me?”

Daenerys scrunched her brows. Had she not told him that before? Surely, she had. If not, it still should’ve been obvious. Why else would she have come all this way to fight his war for him? “Of course I do.”

“You threatened to burn me at the last war counsel,” he said.

“That was a threat for your sister to remember, not you. She had to know that I will not tolerate being betrayed. That my love for you will not sway me from doing what has to be done if she were to caution our men against following you and I south.”

Jon nodded, his brows pinched together as though he was in pain. “Aye, Sansa… she won’t betray me. I wouldn’t tell her if I think she would.”

“And you trust her even as you two argue? Never underestimate a woman scorned, Jon,” Daenerys asked, and again his eyes slowly widened in surprise. “What? Did you not think I would notice? I know that you both are busy with preparations, but she always found the time to steal you away from me before.”

“It’s not… she’s only afraid of me going south again. Our grandfather, her uncle, her father, her brother – they all died when they went south. Stark men don’t do well in the south,” he said.

“But you’re not a Stark, are you? You’re a Targaryen, in blood if not by name,” Daenerys said. And suddenly Rhaegal’s affection for him made sense. Her children had sensed his dragon blood from the beginning. But even if he shared her blood, he was not a _true_ dragon. The burn on his hand confirmed that. “Together, we will rebuild the Targaryen dynasty. I think you were right when you said I shouldn’t trust the witch. I want to bare your sons and daughters, Jon. I want to have a child so that our family can once more bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms.”

“We will,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “For years – for what feels like my entire life – my only goal was to defend the living against the dead. Now that the Night King is finally gone… I thought that I would die with him. When I survived, I knew it was because the gods weren’t done with me yet. I’ve only been in love once before, but it’s nothing to what I feel now… until Death himself parts us, you are my purpose, Dany.”

Daenerys smiled at him before pulling him down into a kiss. He grunted before pulling her closer until their bodies melded together. He loved her, and she loved him. He wouldn’t betray her. He was her family as much as he was Sansa’s or Arya’s or Bran’s. She wasn’t alone in the world anymore. 


	34. Sansa

Sansa walked through the halls of her home, excitement humming through her. She knew that she should be ashamed – to be looking forward to someone’s death as she was – but she wasn’t. The only thing worse than burning an innocent was burning an innocent _child_. The woman deserved to die. It was justice. But even in her death, the woman would serve them. She might lose someone with the ability to raise the dead – the only redeeming factor of any Red Priestess – but she would be useless to them in Dorne anyway. And her death would potentially save them from fighting a war against a kingdom that had never wronged the North.

Ser Davos was exactly where she expected to find him in the smithery with Gendry, who was fast at work repairing armors that were bent or broken in the battle against the dead despite the early hour. “Lady Stark,” he said by way of greeting.

“Ser Davos. My apologies for interrupting, but I was hoping you would come with me. It shouldn’t take long,” she said.

“Of course, milady,” he said, saying a quick goodbye to Gendry before following her. The rest of them were already waiting in her solar, each having slipped in there separately and quietly since breaking fast. “I hope everything’s alright?”

“It is, Ser,” she said before quieting her voice. “Forgive me. The walls have ears, but I promise everything will make sense shortly.”

The man nodded, and they continued to walk in companionable silence. Despite a mutual respect for one another, the two had never spoken without Jon there in the middle. At first, it was because she doubted his loyalty. After calling Stannis his king for so long, the man had hardly wasted a day before deciding Jon was his new liege and lord. The quickness of his changed loyalty had reminder her too much of Littlefinger. Then, it was because he stayed low on her list of priorities. Jon was handling him well enough, and she had so many other people to worry about. 

When they finally reached her room, Brienne guarding her door dutifully (Jaime a dozen miles south of them by now), she was careful to open the door only wide enough for them to slip through, should any spies be peering around the corner.

When Ser Davos walked in front of her into the room, he stumbled upon seeing who was inside waiting for them. Jon, Arya, Brand _and Lady Melisandre_.

“What is she doing here?” he hissed as soon as the door was closed.

Arya was repeatedly tossing and catching her Valyrian steel dagger, and Bran was staring between them all blankly. They were far from the jovial troublemakers she once knew. But she would mourn their losses of their youth once the war was won.

Jon cleared his throat when she walked around so that she was standing beside him, and he stepped closer to his friend. “I promised you that this woman would die if she ever came back. I intend to keep that promise.”

Ser Davos sputtered, before looking around the room. “Your dragon queen won’t like that.”

“She is _not_ my queen,” Jon growled, making the old man’s eyes widen. His shoulders sagged, too, in obvious relief. “And she won’t know.”

“The Dornish princess might like you, but I think she’d tell the queen when her Red Woman is no where to be found when they journey south,” he said, shaking his head.

“Ser Davos,” Sansa said, thinking over her rehearsed words. She had to say this perfectly… Jon trusted the man completely. She still didn’t; she would be a fool to trust anyone not named Stark, but she trusted in the Onion Knight’s need for revenge. And by helping him achieve that, they would buy his loyalty. He wanted all those who declared fire their god dead as much as she did. “What we’re about to tell you is never to leave this room. We are telling you so that you know that when House Stark promises you something, we will keep that oath.”

_And so that you know you don’t have to take justice into your own hands_, she added silently.

“Don’t waste your pretty words on me, Lady Stark,” Ser Davos said, glaring at the Red Woman before looking between her and Jon curiously. “Your words will not leave this room, so long as this woman,” he pointed angrily at the priestess as if they didn’t already know who he was threatening, “doesn’t either.”

“I have done what I was meant to by bringing back the prince that was promised so that he could save the living,” Lady Melisandre said. Sansa had never met anyone more ready to die. No sooner had Sansa come up with her plan before the woman approached her, letting her know she would go along with it willingly. When Sansa told her that she would not be burned, she had only nodded, saying she did not deserve a pure death. “The Lord of Light is done with me, but not my face.”

“Have you ever heard of the Faceless Men, Ser Davos?” Lady Sansa asked. At her words, the man’s eyes flickered to Arya, face paling, before he nodded. “So, you’ve heard the rumors of my sister… I’m here to tell you that they’re true. That Lady Melisandre will die today, but her face will travel south. Her face will befriend Lady Elia. Her face will help Dorne see that the dragon queen is her father reborn. I know that this is a lot to take in…”

“I mean no disrespect, milady, but I watched this witch give birth to a shadow and fought against an army of the dead. Nothing sounds so strange anymore,” he said, making Arya snort.

“My father had a saying. ‘Whoever passes the sentence swings the sword’,” Jon said, stepping forward and clasping his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I know that I promised you I would kill her, but it is your… the act is yours, should you want it.”

Ser Davos looked back to Arya. “You can… you don’t have to be the one to kill her?”

“I only need her face. Slit her throat or stab her heart, it makes no difference,” Arya said with a small shrug. Sansa still remembered when she promised her sister that she could be the one to kill Littlefinger. A name that deserved to be at the top of her list without her even knowing, but one that was crossed off the same sennight it was added. Her sister had pledged to follow Sansa’s every command if it meant she could cross off every name on her list.

Without further hesitation, Ser Davos grabbed his sword and immediately plunged it straight through Lady Melisandre’s ribs into her heart. The woman’s eyes widened, but she smiled in her death before falling, still graceful, to the floor.

“Efficient,” Arya said before moving around to grab the corpse underneath her shoulders. She nodded over to their mother’s old rooms, the one’s she had stopped sleeping in since the Long Night began. “I’ll be in there. Don’t disturb me. This isn’t something any of you need to see.”

Ser Davos stared at his kill, somewhere between satisfaction and anger. She could understand that feeling very well. Satisfaction in justice but anger that their sins could never be undone. Finally, he turned back to her. “What do you need me to do?”

“Continue to act angry whenever you see her. She needs to leave with Dorne. You will then go south after them, supposedly to seek your revenge, when really you will go to the Red Keep. Cersei has closed the city, not allowing anyone to leave. You will smuggle out as many as you can. We have others who will try to convince her to surrender, but we can never be too safe.”

“And then the mad woman will be queen,” Ser Davos spat.

“Davos,” Jon said cautiously. “We can’t tell you everything for your own protection. Hell, I don’t know everything, either. But we need you to trust us.”

He looked between them again, before turning to where the red woman’s blood had splattered against the floor. “I’ve seen you both do the impossible before. No reason to think you won’t again.”

“Could you bring me to the godswood, Ser Davos?” Bran asked, startling all of them. He was so silent most of the time that they often forgot he was there.

Ser Davos cleared his throat but nodded. “Of course, little lord.”

When the two left the room, Jon walked over to the drops of blood. “I’ll clean that. The servants would talk.”

“Don’t worry about that, Jon,” she said, motioning for him to sit in front of her hearth. It had not been a false winter like she had hoped, once the Night King was slain. She could already count the hours of the day on one hand, and the days were still getting shorter. Even the Free Folk were beginning to say it felt like a true winter. “I spoke to Bran, and I need you to approach Daenerys about something for me. The Dornish need to leave in three days if they’re to outpace the storm, and we need to be making preparations to move as many people as we possibly can inside the castle.”

“If she thinks the armies might become stuck here, she’ll push for everyone to leave with the Dornish,” Jon said.

“Which is why we’re not going to mention the storm,” Sansa said. It was almost perfect. Her armies becoming trapped by the storm would infuriate Daenerys, but it would also give her people much needed time. The gods had never thought to bestow an easy journey on any of them before. Why should they start now? There had already been the complication where Jorah Mormont had joined Jaime and Sandor with their ‘former’ Lannister soldiers with his own small party of Unsullied, but thankfully she had a few weeks before they reached the Twins to think of a solution. 

“I’ve already instructed all of the healers to focus their efforts on the Dornish. Samwell tells me he thinks that they’ll be ready to journey in time. Apparently, Lady Ladybright is quite talented. He’s confident in her ability to keep the men and women from infection on their march to the Twins. And that in those weeks, she’ll have them healed enough for a siege.”

Lady Sarella Ladybright was also a talented poisoner, but that was more of a concern for Arya. She was to leave with them as the Red Priestess, and once they reached the Twins, she would feign some prophecy that demands she leave them.

When Jaime had begged her to spare Cersei, she had refused. A woman like that would not stop being a threat unless she was buried in the ground. She was a woman with nothing left but the game. Cersei Lannister would not stop until she won or she died. Gone was the woman who knew the value of working with her enemies. The pile of rubble and ash where the Sept of Baelor once stood was proof enough of that. But when Jaime had amended his pleading to ‘until the babe is born’, she had barely had the chance to agree before Bran _quite unceremoniously_ informed Jaime that his sister was not pregnant, but sick. Jaime had looked somewhere between heartbroken and relieved.

_“It’s not that I… she is a cruel woman. I’ve always known that, but now… I’ve seen what that mad queen’s dragons can do. I know you’ve heard stories of what happened at the Battle of the Goldroad, but so did Cersei. She didn’t understand, then. But I think I could convince her to stand down now. Please, give me leave to go to her and convince her to stand down.” _

Sansa had privately informed Arya that should Jaime fail, she would wear Cersei’s face, and surrender for them. Arya had asked to go to the evil-ridden city even if he succeeded, and of course Sansa had said yes, so long as she returned promptly to the Dornish princess afterwards. She needed the city’s whispers, and her sister had joked that she was the North’s Master of them already. Her talents were as terrifying as they were helpful.

“So, what am I to tell Daenerys, then?” Jon asked, dragging her back to the present. “And even if she doesn’t, her advisors are likely to notice that Jaime Lannister and the Hound are gone.”

Sansa paused, brows jumping before she could stop them. The pair had only left the night before, and the castle was large. It should’ve taken him – or anyone – past a single morning to realize. “You seem so sure they’re gone,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Why?”

Much to her amusement, Jon blushed before clearing his throat. “They’re always watching you,” he said, voice gruff.

“Well, seeing as Jaime has sworn his sword to protect me, I should hope so,” Sansa said, barely able to contain her smirk. The knight had named his sword Nightwarder after their battle against he dead, and she thought it fitting for a sword that would often face against the terrors of winter. She knew objectively that he was handsome, but she had been so foolishly focused on Joffrey when they first met, and by the time they reunited Jon had already stolen her heart. But there was an unfamiliar fluttering in her gut at her cousin's jealousy – for what else could his words mean? – as he scraped his hand through his beard. It was not the reaction she was expecting. Since leaving her home, so many had tried to own her. But it was different with Jon. She was his, but he was hers, also. “And Ser Clegane has always looked out for me, in his own way.”

Jon grunted. She had told him the stories as soon as he had returned to the North with the man in his company. How Ser Clegane had saved her from rapists. How had had offered to take her from the city.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it, and I thought we were going to trust one another,” Jon said eventually. He wasn’t looking at her, and Sansa sat up straighter. She recognized his tone. It had been so long since they had argued, but she could feel it coming. Like smelling the change in the air before it snowed. “You only talk to me about Daenerys. All of you. Unless it has to do with after the war.”

“That’s not true. You know about Arya. And I thought we agreed it’s better that you didn’t know everything,” Sansa said, careful to keep her voice low and quiet. They hadn’t told him about their plans to kill Cersei, but that was because she didn’t want to get his hopes up should they fail. He was the one marching south. He was the one that would stand next to Daenerys when she unleashed her dragons. He stood up from his chair abruptly to face away from her. 

“Aye, you’re better at this part than me. But that doesn’t mean I have to like being left in the dark, Sansa,” he said. She ignored how his name on her lips coiled a warmth in her stomach, his Northern brogue so familiar and rough that she wondered how she had ever fancied the south and their frivolities. “I know that my _relationship_ with Daenerys is important. That you’ll likely be relying on me to help keep her from bringing her dragons to King’s Landing. But I can help with other things, too.”

Sansa took a deep breath. The only other two people who knew of her plans with the three were Bran and Varys. Bran, because he knew as close to everything as anyone, and Varys, because she had needed his network. She hadn’t made the decision to have a spy network of her own until she had escaped the Boltons, so her hold on the inner secrets of King’s Landing was still too weak. She hadn’t told him about Arya’s secret as a Faceless Man, but she knew he suspected it anyway.

Realizing she still hadn’t responded to Jon, Sansa huffed. She hated when she had to use _his_ words, but Jon _had_ to learn, just like she did. “Look around you. We’re all liars here, and every one of us is better than you.”

“You think if I knew, I would fail you,” he said simply, his own words making him wince.

“It is a compliment to you, Jon,” Sansa said, finally standing up to follow him. His hands were in fists at his side. She longed to reach for him, but his anger kept her rooted in place. She knew he would never hurt her. She knew that this was Jon. But still she could not make herself reach for him. And lingering thoughts of Littlefinger had sent her stomach into a knot. “My main concern is Tyrion. He’s good at manipulating people. I’m working on him, but until then – or until you will be parted from him – there are some things you have to trust me are better kept in the dark.”

She thought of Ser Clegane’s quest. He had a list, just like Arya, except his was only one name. Gregor Clegane. The Mountain. He hadn’t asked her permission to go, but he’d informed her, and she’d demanded that he take Jaime with him. One with a burned face and the other one hand, they would attract attention whether they were together or alone. It was safer for them to travel together. Then, Jaime had convinced her he could win over the Lannister soldiers at the Twins, and she realized that there was no way to hide her plot from the dragon queen. Even if they won the castle with no bloodshed, Daenerys would consider it an offense. 

Arya would find them once they reached King’s Landing, and the Burned Knight would give her his brother’s head. She would give it to Jaime – or Tyrion, if she could play it right – who would very publicly give it to Lady Elia. It might not be enough to give Tyrion what he truly wanted, but it would definitely lead him in the right direction. (Love really did make fools of them all.) He was already seeing the well-rooted madness beginning to take over his queen. It was likely he had been beginning to fall in love with the woman, before they had crossed the Narrow Sea into Westeros. She still couldn’t place which ways his loyalties would fall if she presented him her plan, so she had to do everything to push it in her favor.

_Everyone is your enemy. Everyone is your friend. Every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something _that_ you’ve seen before._

“You still haven’t answered my question. If you intend to trap her army in the storm, everyone will be in Winterfell, so people _will_ notice who’s missing. What am I to tell Daenerys about their absence?”

“They have gone south on my request to negotiate with the Lannister garrison at the Twins to see if they’d be willing to change sides.”

“Have they now?”

“Jon, please don’t be angry with me,” Sansa said, moving her hands to fold them in front of her. His eyes followed the action, and his brow twitched. “Jaime is Tyrion’s _brother_. He will push to know as much as he can. The less you know, the better.”

“So you say,” he said with just as little expression. 

If he was angry, why wasn’t he yelling at her? He’d never had a problem with it before.

“I told your queen about it at supper last night. _Her_ plan to send them,” Sansa said, smirking slightly. “She sent Jorah Mormont with them, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I need her to think she is winning small victories with me. And she likes ‘commanding’ my men.”

“You think it’s funny.”

“After how I testified at Jaime’s trial, I can’t afford to appear too clever or defiant. I need to keep her happy enough to not burn me alive before it’s time for her to leave.” _Or to die_, Sansa thought, shrugging. “Even if she suspects I convinced her to do this, she’s happy to take the credit. People will sing her the praises. That’s what’s most important.”

“Sansa–”

“Winter is coming,” she said, their father’s words instantly silencing him. “And it’s giving us time. We have to use it, Jon. You have to devote your time to placating Daenerys. The dragons will be stuck in the blizzard, but afterwards… I’m terrified what she will do if she has the chance to fly south. You need to use the clear skies to bond with Rhaegal before they’re gone.”

“And what will you do about the Dornish army? If Jaime is successful at the Twins, they’d be able to continue south and beat the storm.”

“You know I don’t know about battles,” Sansa said, fighting to keep her breath calm, but failing more with each word. “You’d know better if they should stay at the Twins or push forward to retake Riverrun.”

“I’ll talk to Ser Barristan and Lady Elia before approaching Daenerys,” Jon said. He seemed in a better mood that she had given him more to think about, but there was still the underlying tension.

It would’ve been easier – better, probably – to push forward past the brewing argument, but something in Sansa was ticking. She was always holding everything in. It had been so long since she had just _screamed_. And the way Jon was looking at her was sending her thoughts into a storm.

“Good. Do that,” she said tightly. His jaw flexed at her tone. She spun away from him, heading for her door. As she reached it, she stopped, turning her chin to look at him over her shoulder. “I know there’s more bothering you. When you’re ready to talk about whatever it is that really has you so cross, you know where to find me.”

“I’m ready now!” Jon marched towards her, surprising her when he pushed her into her bedroom. He kicked the door closed with his foot before continuing prowling towards her. Sansa hadn’t realized she was backing up until the back of her calves hit her bed. She was careful not to fall, but Jon didn’t stop until she could feel the heat of his deep breathes on her face. “You won’t let me protect you. You go out of your way to infuriate Daenerys when she’s already unstable–”

“If you’re talking about the trial, I needed to destroy any lingering notions about her not being like her father. And I’m loyal to Brienne. If you think I would let Jaime–”

“She’ll kill you, Sansa!” Jon shouted. He grabbed her shoulders, gently despite the ire radiating off of him. “I feared it when you suggested she stay here _one moon_. With her and you trapped here for only gods know how long, _there’s no hope_. She’ll burn you!I can’t wait you die! _I can’t lose you!_”

Sansa quieted. Not for the first time, Cersei’s words rung in her ear. _Love is a poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same._

She had always been too greedy for her own good. Since she was a child. She knew it to be true, but it made it no less difficult to be otherwise. 

During her time in King’s Landing, Cersei had tried to help Sansa in her own way. The lessons she taught gave a clear window into the cunning and ruthlessness that lay within. Sansa had always respected it about her. It was why she needed to keep Daenerys and her dragon alive until she knew Jaime or Arya was successful.

_The more people you love, the weaker you are. You’ll do things for them that you know you shouldn’t do. You’ll act the fool to make them happy, to keep them safe._

Sansa was advantaged over Daenerys better than Cersei if not only because most of the pawns to her game against the dragon queen were right in front of her. While the same might also mostly be true for Daenerys, too, Sansa had already eliminated the man she now realized was her greatest threat when she had won Varys to her side.

Both Jon and Lord Royce had befriended Ser Barristan and Grey Worm. Neither of them blindly adored their queen. The knight followed her out of desperation for her to be like her father, but Jon had just a good as blood claim to the dragon prince. He was amendable. And the only person Grey Worm was unconditionally devoted to was Missandei. And she and Sansa had grown into affectionate acquaintances. The Naathian was smarter than she gave herself credit for, and she somehow still had a soft heart despite everything she’d been through. Although Sansa doubted the couple would ever fight _against_ their queen, she could see them abstaining. She would just have to think of a way to convince them to not avenge Daenerys. To see that she gave the Seven Kingdoms no choice.

“Power is a funny thing, Jon,” Sansa said finally. With new acquaintances came new lessons, and she would do her duty to her family and teach them everything she knew. She traced her fingernail down his cheek, featherlight, enjoying the way he leaned into her touch. “It resides wherever people _believe_ it resides. And winter is here. The people know that it’s _our_ house that can lead them through its unforgiving snows.”

“Do you not hear yourself? People relying on you more than her is _exactly_–”

“The gods have already flipped the coin, Jon. It landed the moment she did in Westeros, and we told her _no_,” Sansa said firmly. He spun away from her, and she took a deep breath before stepping away from the space he had pushed her into. She took a deep breath and watched his back expand as he did the same. 

Really, Sansa understood the woman. The incest of her ancestors were not her fault, and going from being worshipped to being whole-heartedly rejected so suddenly was a hard shift of worlds. It would make anyone desperate, and she had returned dragons to the world. She had likely grown up with a very firm belief in destiny. That hers was to rule the world.

Sansa understood her, but she was still the enemy. She was still a threat to everyone that Sansa loved. It was why she did not manage to soften her voice as much as she intended when she continued, “She just sent away the only man in Westeros with blind devotion to her. It is not my fault if her other _subjects_ start to see the truth of her. If she _were_ to burn me alive, I would be the sacrificial lamb, so to speak–”

Her words made Jon spin around, pulling her into a desperate kiss. The suddenness of it ripped a moan from her before she could stop it. “How dare you speak of your death so casually. I told you, Sansa. There’s nothing beyond this. This is the only life we’ve got. And yours will not end by being burned alive.”

“It won’t. She won’t,” Sansa said. She knew that she was playing a dangerous game, but Bran had seemed so calm about it. He had promised her that she was setting up herself perfectly. That Cersei was also playing her own game, and that her moves would provide Sansa opportunities to save herself from the burning stake. The statement both terrified and relieved her. She had seen more glimpses of Bran since the Night King was killed, but not when he had told her that he finally understood why the last Three Eyed Raven had chosen him.

_The strongest tree was rooted in the darkest place of the earth. The snows have fallen. The white winds have blown._

Sansa had refrained from asking for clarification because she had quickly learned that only ever left her more confused... or disturbed. She was alright with not knowing the exact answer for now, as long as she did eventually. The words had somehow instilled a focused calmness in her that she used to map out her plan into the Long Night.

The peacefulness was still there, centering her, but right now it was completely focused on Jon. The sun was still high in the sky, and Varys had orchestrated Daenerys visiting Winter Town with Arya. They wouldn’t return until at least sundown.

“She will not take me from you. She will not take _you_ from _me_. The pack survives, Jon,” Sansa said, twisting him around to push him back onto the bed. He growled, low in his throat, and she wasted no time before crawling on top of him. The action surprised him as much as it did her, but she had decided the moment he had told her the truth of his parents that she would grab onto whatever little light she could find in the darkness of the world. So, she let herself soak in how firmly his hands grabbed her hips. How despite his grip being tight enough to border pain, it only pushed an unfamiliarly pleasant warmth down her stomach.

Her mother’s promises that her lord husband would be gentle in the bedroom and Margaery’s promises that it could be as pleasurable for the woman as the man, if he only knew what to do, started to bounce around in the back of her head. They coated over her fears and bruises left behind by her previous tormenters.

_All memory of you, Ramsay Snow, will disappear._

Jon pinched her thigh. “What’s wrong?”

Sansa smiled down at down at him, enjoying the way his grey eyes were almost black with clear desire despite the worry etched into his features. His hand that wasn’t on her thigh reached forward to curl around one of her strands of hair falling around her, the tenderness of the motion making her sigh in contentment.

“Nothing that we can’t handle,” she said.

He grinned back at her, the heat from their argument, however short, changing into something different altogether. She tried to memorize his face, the small smile that was barely there but always filled with such genuine happiness. “Aye, your life will become the song you once hoped for, sweet girl.”

The endearment melted her further, and she let herself sink into him, pressing a light kiss to his jaw before looking into his eyes once more. 

“I love you, Jon. The Stranger himself could not take you from me,” she said. Then, hesitating only for a moment, she said, “Before– before you go back to her, will you show me that you are mine?”

His dark brows scrunched together. “Of course I’m yours… what do you–” And then he realized what she was asking, if only by the way her hips had started to roll on top of his, and his eyes widened. His hands gripped her harder, but for different reasons than before. “We _can’t_. I would never dishonor you.”

“I am not a maid, Jon,” she said, leaning until their lips brushed as she spoke. “I want to know what it’s supposed to be like. I want _you_ to show me.”

Before she could blink, he flipped them over and smashed his lips to her. She moaned, gripping at his hair and back to pull him closer. Happy that even in her inexperience, she could seduce the man she loved.

“I will not, not until we’re married,” he said in between kisses, making her frown. Perhaps she had celebrated her victory too early. But then he dragged his lips across her jaw and sucked beneath her ear, sparking a sharp throb between her legs. “But I can show you other things.”

“Yes, please,” she groaned as his lips started to trail down her neck.

They paused above her breasts, and he paused to suck and bite at those over her dress. Her lips canted against him, trying to find friction to ease the pleasurable ache. When he lowered to her stomach, confusion began to take over, and then he was off the bed, kneeling before her.

“What are you doing?” she asked as he began to push her skirts up her legs and pull down her small clothes.

“Trust me,” was his only answer before his head disappeared between her legs.

Any question she might’ve pushed – any thoughts _at all_ – left her brain as pleasure overtook her. And in that small moment, with a war raging around them and enemies hiding in every shadow, all she felt was untamable bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Two chapters in one weekend as apology for missing last week... I forget if I've mentioned this before, but I have a health condition that sometimes makes me out of commission. Missed almost all of last week for work... BUT the chapters were already mostly ready. Just wasn't able to hold focus enough to edit... still not sure if I'm happy with this chapter, but wanted to get it up for everyone. Hope you enjoy Sansa's plot! I sometimes worry about doing the politics of this well enough, but not going to lie, it's a lot of fun to write :)


	35. Cersei

The news that the North and the dragon bitch had defeated the army of the dead with Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow, Elia Dayne, and _both_ of her brothers surviving sounded like the exact kind of luck that Cersei had come to expect in her life. The world was determined to crush her beneath its weight, but she was had survived this long for a reason.

Even with the Golden Company bought and paid for, she knew it was unlikely that they would be able to win in a battle when the enemy had two dragons in her army. But what had her father done when the Young Wolf continued to beat him on the field? Turn his allies against him and let them do the dirty work for him.

It would be even easier for her than it had been for her father. Qyburn’s spies – he called them his birds like the self-righteous spider cretin before him, but she refused to – had reported that the North still loathed the Targaryen despite her helping them in the battle against the horror stories from her youth. Particularly, Cersei’s favorite little dove. 

When Cersei had learned that Sansa Stark had not been the one to murder Joffrey, what motherlike affection she had once felt for the girl all those years ago had slowly crept back. She would never replace Myrcella, but she had almost been her daughter by law. She wouldn’t have taken Joffrey from her like the whore from Highgarden. She would’ve been the perfect little queen, happy to join her family instead of taking them from her. And despite knowing it foolish to care for anyone but herself, Cersei was nothing if not a mother.

On instinct, her hand cradled her swollen belly. Qyburn had told her that something was wrong. Her blood had come last month, as well as this month. And it wasn’t in the spotty way that she had gone through in her previous pregnancies. According to him, she was showing no signs that she was actually pregnant. Her bump was too hard, and the size wasn’t right. And as much as she wanted to scream the opposite, she knew in the already broken pieces of her heart that he was right.

She would make Jamie suffer for giving her false hope, but now was not the time. 

From Littlefinger’s scroll, she had gathered that he wanted Sansa Stark dead, but Cersei had to do what was best for _her_. She was the last one left that mattered. She would use the slimy bastard to influence the other kingdoms, but she could no longer trust him with the Starks. She had to take matters into her own hands.

It was why she had sent a package with the golden chains that Tyrion had used to strangle his whore lover to death north with her garrison. With it, she had placed a message telling Sansa of the little monster’s – of the _murderer’s_ – actions. To dare her to surprise Tyrion with the chains and see how he reacted. If he would confess. Sansa would see it for the manipulation that it was, but Cersei doubted that would stop her from seeking her revenge. That foreign whore had been so easy to manipulate in the end, but she had been a true friend to Sansa. Her death would not go unanswered. She was too alike Cersei in that way.

In her dreams, Cersei still remembered watching the Sept of Baelor explode with so many of her enemies inside. The pleasure was unlike anything she’d ever felt, but, unfortunately, she could not defeat _all_ of her enemies that way. Some of them would have to live if she had any hope of winning. And Sansa Stark was the only Northerner in their entire kingdom with half a brain. The only one that Cersei could trust to rule. 

The little dove had been selfish, naming the North independent before her idiot half-brother had bent the knee. Now she would be furious with him – and more importantly, amendable to calling someone else queen as long as it wasn’t some foreign tart. And best of all, the woman had vowed to never travel south ever again. She had no desire for the Iron Throne or to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as she once did.

In her letter, she promised to name Sansa Matron of the North. If she convinced her army to not travel south with the dragon queen, the crown and its armies would never march on her lands ever again. She would be queen in all but name. Cersei would even offer a position on the Queen’s Counsel to any Northerner of her choosing. 

But she still doubted that would be enough, which is why she needed to convince them that Daenerys Targaryen was her father. The Mad Queen. Even worse, because she had dragons. She needed to convince her that the kingdoms could not afford to stay at war. That she should not waste any more Northerner’s lives in a war against the south for independence.

Honestly, the woman had already made it so terribly easy. Burning all the food, so she didn’t even have to lie when telling the people she was why they were starving. Burning alive one of the great houses of the Reach, ensuring that kingdom would never see her as anything but a foreign invader. (Cersei might’ve destroyed House Tyrell, but they were still such a new house of power to the wealthy kingdom, as opposed to an old and respected family like the Tarlys.) With the Frey women and children trapped inside the Crossing, she only had to anger the woman enough to want to burn the castle – and the innocent inside.

The woman was a fool for wanting – for _needing_ – the people’s love, but Cersei would use the weakness for all that it was worth. She was more vulnerable in the North, surrounded by people who despised foreigners.

Cersei’s only regret was that she couldn’t be there to watch her plan unfold. To see the horror take hold over her few remaining loyalists.

There was a knock on the door. Once she told them to enter, Qyburn slipped inside, immediately bowing his head demurely. “My queen, my birds have seen the Dornish army begin to mobilize, but no others. I believe Lady Dayne intends to take back the Crossing without the others.”

Cersei snorted. The princess was supposedly as beautiful as her mother and as talented with a sword as her father. It was no surprise that had left her so arrogant, a trait already so common in the Dornish. And arrogance was the only thing more dangerous than ignorance.

“No matter,” Cersei said, waving him away. 

Lady Dayne had only displayed loyalty and brown-nosing to the dragon queen, as far as she heard, but she had seen how the sight of the dragon in battle had shaken Jaime. Watching it against the dead and the living might’ve shaken the princess, too, and would hopefully only worsen when witnessing it against the living. But she couldn’t afford to sit idle. Cersei would use her time to find out what the princess _wants_. What she can give her to bring her army back to Dorne without first coming to King’s Landing. Her people would surely demand the Mountain’s head as retribution against the Martells, but that was impossible. He was Cersei’s last guarantee that no one could touch her.

When she realized Qyburn was still there, she raised a brow. “Well? Spit it out.”

“Jaime Lannister has pledged himself as Sansa Stark’s sworn sword.”

Cersei stayed quiet for several seconds. He kept his gaze to the floor while he waited for her to react, and she blinked at him. “Leave,” she said finally.

Qyburn swallowed before bowing, seeming happy for the chance to run away for her fury. It was why she liked him. He always knew when to stay and when to leave her.

Cersei started laughing. 

She clutched her swollen belly and laughed like she hadn’t in years. She looked around her, seeing the glass pitcher filled with her favorite wine. She grabbed it, before spinning around and chucking it across the room. The glass shattered against the floor, the red wine staining the stone like a puddle of blood.

“I am going to _end_ him. He abandons me, leaving me alone with these imbeciles? He pledges himself to a _Stark_?”

_Then comes another, younger, more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear._

“So, he can play at having honor? So he can be with that _cow_ of a woman?”

_When your tears have drowned you…_

“I will let every soldier in my army rape her! I will make him watch! And just when there is nothing left of her, I will take her ugly head with the sword he gave her!”

_The Valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you. _

“He is no brother of mine. I will show him what happens to those who betray me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the things that irritated me the most about the last 2 seasons was how the Lannisters were handled. Cersei just standing around drinking wine and staring out windows? Complaining about no elephants? Helllllllll no!


	36. Tyrion

Tyrion walked through the castle, already eagerly thinking of the feast later that night. The next morning, Lady Elia and her army were leaving. There had been no raven from Ser Jorah’s company – or, more importantly, his brother – and Bran Stark had been unsettling when he’d asked after them the day before.

_No one will keep him safe. Do not worry. He will do what he must. It was foreseen long ago._

Lady Elia then announced that her army would leave immediately, per the prophecy the Lady Melisandre had apparently seen in the flames claiming that they were needed urgently. He was surprised at the princess’s willingness to the change of plans, but her inflexible enthusiasm had quieted anyone’s thoughts that it was too soon with her injuries. She was determined to leave, claiming that ‘she loves the North’s people, but not its winters’. Her keenness paired with Daenerys’s own (as well as her worry for her oldest friend) had made them impossible to refuse.

Varys had requested they meet up in Tyrion’s guest chambers, and then it was off to enjoy the bittersweet night with a goblet or two of the finest Dornish wine he could get his hands on_._ And as for the Dornish woman…

His friend was waiting for him in front of his door, his arched brow signaling his impatience. Tyrion was about to remind him that he was exactly on time, but then his gut twisted with worry. What was it that he wanted to talk about, that he was so impatient?

Tyrion led him into the room, immediately going to throw another log into the hearth. They both inched the chairs closer to the crackling fire before sitting down.

“Well? What is then?” Tyrion asked.

“Whispers from my birds in the Citadel,” Varys said before handing him a scroll. 

_There are rumors of another Targaryen. Archmaesters came across some texts by High Septon Maynard that Prince Rhaegar took Lyanna Stark a second wife. They don’t want anyone to know. _

“Well, at least we know he married her, _then_ raped her–”

Tyrion stopped talking, seeing the Spider’s expression. He recognized that look. His friend was waiting for him to put the puzzle pieces together. He huffed, trying to follow the road of thought laid before him.

The realization punched him in the gut.

“You think that Jon Snow is the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark,” he said.

“Which would make him the true Targaryen heir,” Varys finished.

“That’s treason,” Tyrion said on reflex.

“It’s how inheritance is _supposed_ to work. Surely you remember the debacle with the boy king,” Varys said, voice dripping with haughty sarcasm. “This time we’re lucky enough that the true heir is a good man who will think of the people, and not his crown.”

“The difference here is that right now neither of them have the throne,” Tyrion said. He rubbed his hand over his beard, his energy leaving him all at once. He sagged in his chair, keeping his eyes to the fire. “It can only be won through conquest. She will still want to be the one to win it.”

At his friend’s expression, he groaned before continuing, “Even if your theory is right, there’s no use talking about this when Jon wouldn’t agree. And besides, the two are to wed. Jon will be the king. She will be the queen. Either way, the Targaryens have their crown.”

“I would’ve thought you learned after your sister, that _both_ positions’ occupants matter. I think the way Cersei killed Robert would look like a mercy killing compared to what Daenerys would do to Jon.”

“So, what would you have us do? Wait for them to marry, and then kill our queen? Make it look like a natural death – no mind that no one would believe that as she is at the prime of her health – so perhaps an accident instead? Less people would die that way, after all,” Tyrion said, voice filled with vehement sarcasm.

Daenerys was the first person he ever believed in. All his life, he had made fools of people who had believed in anything. And then he went and believed in her. If he was wrong, that made him just as foolish as all the rest. It was an embarrassment he didn’t want to endure.

_But wouldn’t it be more foolish to not cut your losses now and fix your mistake?_ a voice whispered from the back of his skull.

“I do not have to tell you who the best choice is for Jon’s queen,” Viserys said. No, he didn’t. But he would anyway, such was the way of his friend. “Lady Sansa’s name and blood alone have given her the loyalty of three kingdoms. She will become a true master at the game in time, and she cares about the people. She will be good for the realm. What more could we hope for in a monarch?”

“Sansa has sworn to never go south again. King’s Landing was the start of everything going wrong for her. Varys, the poor girl watched her father be beheaded there. Do you really think she would ever want to return to the place that she was stripped and tortured for the amusement of my pathetic excuse of a nephew?”

“You saw him in Dragonstone, refusing to take off the furs she made for him even when he was sweating through every layer,” Varys said. The man gave away information like the nobles did gold in front of the sept (before Cersei burned it to rubble). They reveled in doing the sweetness of the gesture, even though it was but a few drops of their fountain of wealth. “If you didn’t notice then, I know you’ve seen how the two have acted since our arrival here. It’s true that we’re learning of this secret now, but we don’t know how long they’ve known. How long they have been in love. She _will_ go to King’s Landing, if only for him.”

“When has love ever ended well for anyone?” Tyrion snapped, a pair of blue and purple eyes flashing in his mind before he could smother it back to nothing. “And you forget, you promised Daenerys that you would voice your concerns to her instead of conspiring behind her back.”

“I’ve made the choice so many times, I’ve rather grown numb to it. You will too, one day. It will become an easy choice for you. Between king and country,” Varys said. Someone knocked at the door, and he stood up. “Think about it, my friend.”

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He cleared his throat. “I will,” he said, before adding louder, “Come in!”

The door opened to reveal the servant girl, Mya, holding a pitcher of wine. Varys hesitated when he saw her, but then he turned back to Tyrion. “I will see you at the feast, then, my lord.”

Mya was dipped down in a curtsy, and she waited until he waved her in before standing back up. Lady Elia said the young woman was both opiniated and insightful, but she had only ever been docile to him. He had seen sparks of it, but then the servant’s eyes would widen with fear and she would retreat back inside her shell. He blamed his last name.

“My apologies on the intrusion, milord,” she said, hands tight around the pitcher and face to the ground. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I was just refilling your wine. I know you like to have another cap by yourself before retiring for the night.”

“Always so thoughtful, Mya,” Tyrion said warmly. He didn’t like the idea of the Northerner – her or any of them – fearing him. “Thank you. I hope you’ve the night off and don’t have to serve at the feast.”

“I don’t, milord. I’m marrying in a fortnight, so I’m trying to give the other girls as much rest before I leave them,” Mya said as she walked over to replace the pitcher with the empty one on the small table. She turned back around, head still to the floor, but he could see she was hesitant to leave, debating if she should say something. Finally, she spoke, softly. “It’s a pretty gold chain, milord. I think she’ll like it.”

Tyrion blinked, her words confusing him as his stomach began knotting. “Pardon?”

“I’m sorry, milord. I know it’s not my place, but I saw it next to your bed,” she said, her thick brows scrunching in confusion that matched his own. “I assumed it was for the princess. If you’re scared to give it to her, I just wanted to say I don’t think you should be. I think she’ll like it. I like Lady Elia, and I want her happy. If that’s you, I’m glad you’re treating her how a princess deserves.”

Fear gripped his tongue, rendering him silent. His thoughts exploded, and before he could think better of it, he spun around on his heels and marched towards his bedchamber. When his eyes landed on the sparking chain and his suspicions were confirmed, the horror in his gut settled into dread.

Cersei. At best, she was sending him a warning. At worse… Tyrion suddenly remembered the servant in his solar.

“My apologies. I thought I had put it away, so I panicked that someone might’ve taken it,” he said, the lie coming easy, if not his best. She nodded, concern still shadowing her expression, but she seemed to accept his answer. “Then I shall see you at the feast, Mya. And congratulations on your wedding!”

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion,” Mya said. She curtsied again before leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Except he didn’t have time to think in solidarity. He would have to do it while walking to the feast, if he didn’t want to be late.

In his weeks at Winterfell, he had learned his way to all of the major locations within the castle. He still found himself lost at least once a sennight, but he was only getting better. Just in time to leave, yet again.

Unfortunately, the walk from the Guest Hall to the Great Hall was mostly outside. When he reached the exit of the large building, Tyrion pulled his coat tighter. It hadn’t snowed in a few days, but the temperature was still steadily dropping. Or so the Northerners and Free Folk told him. He had reached ‘numb’ ages ago. It was all the same after that. All he knew was that it was colder than the Wall had been all of those many years ago.

When he pushed through the doors into the Great Hall, he breathed in the warm air with relief. The hall was already near capacity, and the crowd’s combined heat made up for there only being one hearth. He slowed his step, taking his time in taking in the room.

The first person he noticed was Arya Stark, who was actually sitting at the head table for the first time since their arrival in Winterfell. She was talking in hushed whispers with the lady of the castle. Daenerys was at the table also, but he doubted she was listening to the sisters, as Jon Snow’s attention was focused solely on her. He had been more affectionate with her since the battle. A fool might think it was because he didn’t have to worry about the Night King, but he knew better. Jon would always love his half-sister – or was it cousin now? – but was clearly trying to convince himself to fall in love with Daenerys. Or to at least convince _her_ that he was. It was a smart move. They needed someone to have her ear.

Lady Elia was sitting at the chair for the guest of honor, goblet of wine already in hand despite the food not yet being served. She was seated between the queen and Lady Sansa, but her attention was on Ser Barristan, who was standing before her.

Kinvara and Varys were off to the side, standing awkwardly next to one another as they silently watched everyone.

Around them, he realized a change in the lower tables’ seating arrangements. The kingdoms were not sitting by themselves, nor were the armies. Missandei and Grey Worm were sitting in the middle of the table to the very right, surrounded on one side by Unsullied officers, and on the other by Northern lords and ladies. The Dothraki were mainly talking to Free Folk, each attempting to speak words of the other’s language. The Dornish were sprinkled in between all of the other armies, apparently eager to spend the time with the others before their departure. The sight unsettled him, even though he should be happy with the unity being displayed.

“Lord Tyrion, at last,” Daenerys said by way of greeting. She motioned for him to take a seat next to Jon’s left, and he did. As soon as he hit the cold chair, his queen stood, the hall slowly quieting as people looked at her expectantly. “When my ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, first came to Westeros, Dorne was the last kingdom to kneel.” 

“Our knees do not bend easily,” Lady Elia said, raising her goblet. All of her men and women followed the motion before taking large swigs from their own glasses.

Daenerys smiled at her, much happier since the princess’s announcement to march south sooner than expected. He wasn’t so sure anyone else could get away with an interruption. “But when I returned to Westeros to reclaim my birthright, they answered the call and marched farther than any army ever has. When I came to reclaim my birthright, I promised that I would break the wheel. And now with the Night King dead, I can fulfil that oath. You, Lady Elia, are helping me keep that promise by winning back the Twins from the usurper. And my men will follow you. We will free the great House Tully of Riverrun next, and then all of the people of Westeros when I take back the Iron Throne.”

Some cheered, but Daenerys held her hand up. “Lady Elia, this feast is in honor of you and your people. The sacrifices you are making for your queen and country. Let us celebrate. If your men do not leave in the morning without heads throbbing from too much wine, I will have considered this night a failure.”

Lady Elia laughed, as did several others. The queen was getting better at her speeches. She was learning how to tailor them to the different kingdoms. He could imagine growing up in foreign lands how strange the concept was. That despite being commanded under one throne, seeing just how different each one was from the other. Perhaps Varys was overreacting, and she only needed time to learn how to rule.

When the food was brought out, the conversation in the room sprung to life. Immediately, Kinvara sat down in the empty chair to his left. “I have seen you in the flames, my lord,” she said, never one for small talk.

Tyrion grunted. He had been forced to learn to believe in magic, but that didn’t mean he had to accept the validity of all the Red Priestess’s statements. She could still lie, just like everyone else. He could only believe in the truth behind her grand ideas, not in the little statements she made. 

“You were in Dorne. You held the head of the Mountain.”

At that, he snorted. “My lady, I’ve fought in battles, and I’ve survived. But if you’re trying to tell me that I will slay the Mountain,” Tyrion started, but he couldn’t make himself finish before chuckling. As if he needed more proof that she was a fraud. “Unless this is a joke?”

“I have seen it,” Kinvara said firmly before turning to look at the back corner of the hall. Tyrion followed her gaze to Brandon Stark, whose eyes were white as snow as he sat between Lord Reed and his heir. “The Three Eyed Raven is a greenseer. I can see much, but he can see more.”

_Admitting a weakness?_ Tyrion thought in surprise.

“Where I see images, he can walk into the past and do with it whatever he please. The Three Eyed Raven has always been the strongest greenseer,” Kinvara said, just loud enough for him to hear. He glanced around, seeing that no one was paying them any attention. 

“Are you telling me that there are _more_ people who can do what he does?”

“There is at least one more in this hall. There will be even more if they are allowed to replant their weirwood trees and worship their false gods.” 

“False? If what Brandon Stark can do is any inclination, they are very real,” he murmured, as disturbed by this notion as he was intrigued. Were the gods real, too, then? Did they give people powers to play with the world like one giant game of chess? 

“They worship lesser beings who dare call themselves gods.” Kinvara spoke confidently, despite her quiet tone. As if she was explaining to a child.

“We are at a feast, my lady,” Ser Barristan said, walking up to stand in front of the pair instead of asking for his seat back from the red woman. Tyrion looked down at his plate at the word ‘feast’. The soup had half the meat it did when they first arrived, but the cook knew what she was doing. It had been seasoned perfectly. “We should be celebrating.”

“I agree with your sentiment, ser,” Lady Sansa said from chairs over, her voice cutting through the others despite not being particularly loud. Everyone in between them hushed at her words, including the queen. “Tomorrow brings us one step closer to peace. To a broken wheel.”

Daenerys looked rightfully hesitant, but her smile didn’t waver. “I couldn’t agree more, Lady Sansa.”

“I remember what it was like. Peace. It never lasts long, does it?” Sansa said, huffing into her goblet. But just as Tyrion thought she was looking to spark another argument, her eyes flickered to Daenerys. “The Targaryens managed to keep it for quite a few centuries, though.”

Tyrion didn’t doubt her good humor, but he could hear her unspoken words. _Other than the dance of dragons. Or when they were burning people alive._

They were interrupted when a Northern lord, asking for a more private audience with the princess. The familiar prickling of jealousy stabbed at his throat, but he held his tongue. He had meant what he had said to Varys. Love never ended well for anyone in their position.

It was a good thing that Lady Elia was leaving. He would see her again at King’s Landing, and she would likely stay for a little while for the queen’s coronation and then marriage. But then he could go back to the one thing he would never give up for anyone. The game.

Tyrion was not as self-righteous as Varys, but in the end he _did_ want what was best for the people. He would never be king, but since when was the king the most powerful person in Westeros? Not in decades, at least.

Littefinger, the smartest man he had ever known, had even died when he had let love into his plans.

No, he could not risk it. The golden chain that lay next to his bed was proof enough of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Tyrion being manipulated by the Stark sisters without even knowing it... and also struggling with what the hell to do about Dany! As always, your comments give me life :) (which I really need right now with my health continuing to take a rather large dump on my life)


	37. Torgo Nudho

Torgo Nudho woke up to Missandei’s hair covering half of his face, and he grinned in contentment. He looked down to see her asleep on his chest. She always breathed so deeply (and loudly) in her sleep, but matching her slow breathes had always helped him relax enough for to sleep take him.

When someone knocked loudly, instantly making her stir, he glared at the door. Missandei hummed, stretching like a stray cat he used to see on the shores of Red City. There was another knock, this one quieter, but it made her eyes open. She looked up at him and smiled.

“When I was told the days would be shorter, I thought it might afford us the excuse to sleep in later,” she said, wiping the sleep from her eyes before shuffling from the bed. She put a robe around herself before walking through the open door to their solar. “Who is it?”

“The Khaleesi wishes to break fast with you,” a Dothraki woman responded from behind the door, her accent thick.

“Thank you. Let her know that I’ll get ready at once, please,” Missandei responded, always polite. Torgo Nudho smiled at how kind his lover was before following her into the solar. Lady Stark had repeatedly apologized for how small their chambers were, after they had to shift rooms into the Great Keep to account for bringing more people into the castle. A blizzard had taken over the skies for the past five days, so they had moved just in time. Many Dothraki and Unsullied were still forced to sleep in tents, but somehow over one-thousand of them had managed to be crammed into the castle. The Stark woman was afraid of something she called the ‘winter cold’, which had started to make his men cough and fall feverish. A new sickness that he did not care for. But the woman had fret to the couple for nothing. She had said that these chambers were normally for the lady’s own handmaidens, but she kept none. The ‘small’ chambers even still had a solar with its own vent from the hot springs. They were lucky.

“What are you doing today?” Missandei asked when she walked back into their bed chamber to open the doors of her dresser. He stood still, giving himself the moment to just watch her.

“Jon Snow and Ser Barristan invited me to spar with the children today. When the armies were gone, they will be the Stark homes’ last defense.” One of the Northern houses and several Free Folk were also staying, but that decision had been made without the queen’s knowledge. As she hadn’t led any of the group efforts, he had silently agreed to not worry her about it. Even in the winter snows, the Cersei woman could send men to sneak into the castle if they weren’t careful. He could not let her threaten them into leaving Lady Stark and her home so vulnerable. How many battles had they already fought to take it back? To keep it?

“Outside?” Missandei said, her browns frowning as she turned to him with concern.

“No. The tables in the Great Hall was– the tables in the great hall _were_,” he quickly amended at her patient expression, “pushed to the side. We train there.”

“You are not allowed to get sick, Torgo Nudho,” Missandei said, pulling off her thick nightdress to replace it with her dress. He watched her in quiet reverence, and she smiled at him gently. “I do not like this winter cold, but I must admit that the North isn’t quite what I expected. I did not tell you this, but the first night we arrived, a small girl that I greeted ran away from me. Now, children run up to me to give me hugs and… I think Jon was right. The North is just… slow to warm up to outsiders.”

“You are happy here?” Torgo Nudho asked, moving forward to brush back one of her curls that had fallen forward.

“I am. I will be happy to return to someplace warm, though,” Missandei said carefully, turning towards her mirror as she began to twist her hair into its normal style. “I was not born for these harsh winters, but I will miss the people once we are gone. They are very different from anyone we’ve met before.”

Torgo Nudho continued to watch her get ready for her day silently as he thought over her words. He had grown to respect Lady Stark during their time at Winterfell, but he was not sure of her loyalties. In truth, Daenerys Stormborn was a different woman in her homelands. He would never be concerned with how she had treated the masters. They deserved to be burned alive. It was justice. When he was newer to Westerosi politics, he had thought all of the lords and ladies were masters. Now he saw that was a not always true. People like the Lannister woman – _she_ was a master. But Jon Snow was a king that his people chose. It was good that he would be by the queen’s side while she ruled on her throne.

“They are,” Torgo Nudho said finally, surprised to realize he would miss Jon Snow and the Starks when he and Missandei left for Naath. He felt a brotherhood with the Northern warden after following him in battle. He had been a wise commander, and he treated his people fairly. The only vow he had ever seen him break was to kill the other Red Woman.

“I hope that Queen Daenerys never has to return here,” Missandei said quietly, her dark eyes looking to the ground. “It will keep the peace, I think. Keep everyone happy.”

_Keep everyone safe_, Torgo Nudho added internally. He frowned at the thought.

“Have you told our queen of our plans to go to Naath?” he asked to distract himself. She shook her head, and he was careful to keep any inflections out of his voice, “You should. Tyrion has started talking about a small counsel of advisors. We do not want for her to plan for us to stay.”

_If we wait, she will only become angrier._

“You’re right. I’ll try to find the right moment,” Missandei said. She leaned in to kiss him chastely before heading to the door. “I’ll be with the queen all day. Lady Sansa invited us to a sew with her at midday. We are resewing furs back onto armor from the fallen.”

Before he could comment, she was gone, making him huff. The queen had never sewn before, while he heard stories of Lady Stark sewing all of her own dresses. To try for the first time in front of er… he did not want to think of how Daenerys Stormborn would react. What was the Lady of Winterfell thinking?

At the realization of his third thought in fear of the queen, he froze in place. _He was scared of his queen._ He was scared that she would be jealous of Missandei’s new friendship with the Stark. He thought it a power play by the Red Wolf that these Westerosi highborn seemed so insistent on, but then when he saw them together, he always saw true affection in the Northerner’s eyes. And why should being friends be a strategic move at all? Missandei said they only ever talked about Lady Sansa’s childhood or their plans to leave for Naath after the war or even her teaching the woman Dothraki and Valyrian – unless it was _she_ that pushed to talk about why the woman was hesitant to kneel. Queen Daenerys would make sure she did it before officially naming her the ruling Lady of Winterfell. It was known.

Lady Sansa had only let herself be baited by his lover into insulting Daenerys once, but she had listed five reasons filled with uncomfortable truths. He still remembered the way Missandei winced as she quoted them.

During the battle against the Lannisters, she had burned all of the food when smallfolk were starving. She still slipped and called the battle against the dead Jon Snow’s war, even though losing it would’ve killed everyone in the Seven Kingdoms. She was a conqueror, not a queen. Every change she’d ever made in Essos had been undone, with slavery now legal in full once more. She had threatened to return and burn them if that happened, but she hadn’t even mentioned it to any of them. She called herself ‘breaker of chains’ but to this day kept a man who was sentenced to execution for selling slaves in her close circle before he escaped east.

Torgo Nudho knew that Lady Stark was likely trying to falter their loyalty. But he was ashamed to admit that he wasn’t confident that it wasn’t working. He would’ve liked it better if her reasons had been lies or grasps at nothing.

He had just finished dawning his armor when there was another knock at the door. Realizing it was a servant girl with his food, he happily let her in. He listened as she told him that the snow had lessened enough for them to begin shoveling again, but the skies were still thick with storm clouds.

“How are you and the Lady Missandei doing? I know how you southerners are,” the girl, Marna, asked. When he was told that the girl, Mya, who had taken care of them in the Guest Hall wouldn’t be following them to the Great Keep, he had frowned, but Marna had proven to be just as kind. She constantly jested about their inability to handle the cold but never cruelly. 

“We are ready to go where it is warm,” he answered, as he always did.

The girl continued to talk until she had settled his food – a generously thick piece of buttered bread and beans – before leaving him alone. He shoveled the meal into his mouth quickly before making his way to the Great Hall, thankful he would not be outside for long from his new room. He followed the keep’s long hallway all the way to the path just in front of the hall’s entrance, shivering in the cold for less than a minute before pushing through the doors back inside. The hall wasn’t as warm as the keep, but he knew that soon he would sweating with exertion.

“Torgo Nudho!” Jon Snow greeted, his name still slightly odd with the man’s Northern brogue. He waved him over, where he stood watching several of the children doing drills to defrost their muscles. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“I am glad to help,” he said, nodding in greeting at Ser Barristan.

Jon Snow turned to the three dozen children. He was no longer surprised to see that about one-third of the group was made up of young girls. Yet another way Westeros was different from Essos. Although he had not seen any women soldiers in Casterly Rock, both the North and Dorne had many strong women fighters. Jon Snow told him that it was not common – Lady Elia and Ser Brienne were the kingdoms’ first lady knights – but he suspected that would change under the rule of so many powerful women. He had already decided that when he and Missandei went to Naath, they would train both men and women on the island to protect themselves.

“Today we are going to focus on fighting with a spear,” Jon Snow said. His companion moved to a wall where blunted spears enough for the whole group were laid, and he began to pass them out one by one. “Moving forward, this will be your primary weapon.”

They had only taught the children the basics with a sword before the Battle for Winterfell. It had not made sense to train them with a new weapon (if they had any training at all, it had been with a sword), as they had stayed with the women since they weren’t skilled enough to be on the field. They would’ve just been more bodies for the Night King.

There were several grumbles amongst the children, which Torgo Nudho took as his signal. “Your castles give you an advantage, but if they breach the walls, it is you with the disadvantage. The man–” He looked again at the girls sitting on the ground in front of him “–the _soldier_ with the longer reach wins. What you lose with your size, the spear will give back to you.”

He paused, looking to Jon Snow, but the man motioned for him to take the lead. He raised a hand to the white knight, who immediately tossed him a spear. He caught it with ease before he continued, “The most important thing for you to remember is to keep distance between you and your opponent. You will not kill them in one strike, so you will have to be patient. They are trained soldiers, but they will underestimate you. You have to be smart. The more you can make them bleed, the slower they will become. Today, we will focus on the backstep.”

Torgo Nudho showed them the correct stand and step, noting how even Jon Snow and Ser Barristan were closely paying attention. The children all stood up, doing their best to copy his movements. He walked around the hall, hands folded behind his back, watching and occasionally commenting an improvement to their technique. They were fast learners, and within half an hour he was satisfied.

“The best defense always includes a counterattack,” he continued the lesson. “Break off into partners. We will practice two rapid backsteps with quick stabs. Study your opponent. Find where their weak points are. See where they leave open when you make them follow you.”

Once more, the hall did as he advised. This time, Jon Snow approached him to follow him as he walked around their pupils. “Has there been any word from Jorah and the others?” he asked quietly.

“No, the queen worries,” Torgo Nudho said before adding louder. “Remember when they come: do not let your enemy force you into a tight space. It will restrict your movement and take away your advantage.”

“Bran still won’t tell us anything but riddles,” Jon Snow grumbled, “But Sansa seems to think his words mean that everything is falling into place.”

Torgo Nudho stayed silent. When his queen had come forward with her plan to send the Lannister first for the chance at a more peaceful takeback of the Twins, he had been relieved. He saw a glimpse of the woman she was before they landed in Westeros. The woman who knew the value of sneaking into a city and winning them to her side with only the necessary amount of violence. Only killing the masters and not the innocence crushed beneath them.

He was also thankful for Jorah Mormont’s departure. Missandei was always on edge with the man around, and he hurt when she hurt. He would never understand how their queen could love him so dearly.

“Although I have to say, I don’t mind Jorah being gone,” Jon Snow said, as if he had read his thoughts. The Unsullied looked at him suspiciously as the man commented on one of the children’s technique before continuing quietly, “I know that Dany doesn’t feel for him as he does her, but… I don’t miss his glares and constantly going against everything I say.”

Torgo Nudho continued to study him for a few moments before complimenting one of the girl’s lightness on her feet. “He have been in love with her as long as I have known them,” he said. “And she have never returned it.”

“Aye, she’s told me as much, but they’ve gotten closer since we’ve come to Winterfell.” They both stopped talking, Jon Snow fixing one pupil’s stance while Torgo Nudho showed another better target areas to aim at with her quick jabs. The Northerner continued as soon as they were back together, “I know it’s my fault. She’s in foreign lands, and she must’ve been lonely when I was preparing to fight the Night King.”

His words sparked a memory. Of Missandei coming back from the throne room in Mereen to tell him that the queen had let Jorah Mormont live despite swearing to kill him should he return. And then again when he came back after being cured, when she accepted him back with open arms. The words Missandei relayed from Tyrion Lannister rung around in his head.

_A ruler who kills those devoted to her is not a ruler who inspires devotion._

And then a following whisper… Did she twist those words to decide she was allowed to kill anyone who was not devoted to her?

“Are you well?” Jon Snow asked him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve stayed inside during the storms? It’s not the winter cold?”

“No, I was just– I am thinking,” he said, moving out of the man’s grasp to continue pacing around the hall. The white knight was staying on the opposite side of the hall, occasionally switching the children’s partners. It was smart – to keep them vigilant of different styles. The next training he decided they would practice spears against swords. Turning back to the warden, he continued, “Do not worry, Jon Snow. I have seen many man love our queen, but you are the only man I have seen her love. And she sent Jorah away.”

“I’m surprised she didn’t send Ser Barristan, instead of a Westerosi exile. The Lannister men would’ve respected him more. Seeing him working with Jaime, even after the man took his position, would’ve been a good sign of unity. I tried to tell her, but…”

He did not need to finish the sentiment. His queen had always preferred her own plans over ones from others.

“Hopefully, they will still be able to take back the Twins peacefully,” Torgo Nudho said.

“Aye, and if it’s successful, we might have a better chance at convincing her to change her tactics against King’s Landing.”

“The snows will slow us down,” Torgo Nudho said. It had been a fortnight since the Dornish had left, and Lady Elia had sent a raven every few days, likely to ease their queen’s worries after already not hearing from Jorah Mormont. But even with promises that they were making good time, slow but still quicker than expected through the snow-covered lands, she had confessed dozens of her men had already fallen to the winter cold. Varys had calmed their queen by telling her that the winter would hopefully ease now without the Night King’s magic making it worse. “She will want to leave when this storm is gone.”

Jon frowned, before nodding and stepping forward to tell a boy to stay on his toes. He stayed quiet when he fell back into step around him.

Torgo Nudho didn’t say anything, but he had learned something since coming North. When the Starks thought he would not like their answer, they gave none. He was not surprised. The man had a family he did not want to leave behind. This would be the last time he would march south, only ever to return to Winterfell for scant visits. Even Missandei wanted to return to her home when her memories were only a vague image.

He realized that Jon Snow was just like him. No fear of death. Only the fear to never see their most beloved never again. And that was not Daenerys Stormborn for Jon Snow like he once thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I just love Missandei and Torgo Nudho so much. They deserved so much better!


	38. Elia

Lady Elia rode her horse at the front of her army. She was dressed in the finest furs gifted to her by Lady Stark, but she still fought shivers if she stayed still for too long. It was why she had occasionally given up riding to walk and stretch her muscles from freezing in place (or to the carriage if her side’s wound burned too harshly). Her father died by serving out his prince’s last order and taking on four men at once. She would not die by _snow_.

She had a new, deep gratitude for her ancestors for picking the warm deserts of Dorne to settle, instead of these wretched lands. Elia knew that Lady Sansa was a clever woman, but she could not understand her desire to be somewhere that required you to stay indoors for days at a time. That slowed down your troops with the grip of snow and increasingly fleeting visits from the sun. She still wasn’t sure if the days were getting longer as they marched south, or if it was her wishful thinking. The snow was still thick on the ground, and every stream that they’d passed had been frozen solid. She was glad to be leaving it all behind.

Sarella had studied Samwell Tarly heal people from the cold’s sickness back in Winterfell, but supplies were scarce. Too many of them were falling ill, but they had to push on. It made no sense to turn back now, when every time she looked behind them, she saw black clouds take over the sky.

They could only march south now.

The sooner they took back the Twins and Riverrun, the sooner they could take the Iron Throne. The sooner they could take the Iron Throne, the sooner they could return to Dorne. She could finally start her life as the Lady of Starfall, instead of just the Sword of the Morning and Commander of Dorne’s armies.

There was still no word from Ser Jorah or his company, but almost everyone they crossed remembered them. The soldiers should only be a sennight from the Twins by now, and everyone seemed to agree with her thoughts that it was strange they had sent no ravens. But yet, the Northerners they passed all said the small group looked both healthy and uninjured when they saw them. They could all fit inside the inns, so they had only one or two suffering from the winter sickness. Unlike her own men who were dropping like flies.

“What troubles haunt you, my lady?” Lady Melisandre asked from her left, appraising her in that way that felt like she could read her thoughts.

“I am a woman of the desert. During my last winter, I only had to wear thicker dresses if I wanted to go out in the evening,” Elia said, snorting when Lady Sarella at her other side sighed wistfully. “I was not made for the North. I will always have love for it, but in the future, I’d like to admire it from afar.”

“I am afraid the snows will follow the Starks south this winter,” Melisandre said, her words sending dread through the princess.

Elia had never been a particularly religious woman. She prayed to the old and new gods like everyone else, but there always seemed so many other things to be worried about. But Varys had told her the truth of this red woman.

She had been shocked when he’s equated Kinvara to a fraud but this woman to a truly powerful witch. He was a good liar, but she had seen the truth through the fear in his eyes as he had told her.

Lady Melisandre had brought Jon Snow back from the dead. She had named him the prince that was promised, ignoring her High Priestess’s own interpretation of the prophecy. And it was the woman next to her that had been right in the end.

“I’m glad you no longer think your lord is done with you,” Lady Elia said, giving the woman a long look before turning back to her front. A breeze had picked up that added the extra bite that completed her soured mood. “But you should forgive me if I pray for you to be wrong in this one instance. This snow lost its allure after the first sennight.”

The red woman smirked, looking her up and down slowly. The seductive look reminded her of Gendry’s warning. How the priestess had seduced him and then stuck leeches all over him to steal his blood. She had to be careful.

“Even if you are called Dayne now, you will always be a Sand,” Lady Melisandre said. Elia turned to look at her, confirming the woman meant no offence by her words. That was another thing she would not miss. Despite the North choosing Jon Snow as their king, everywhere north of the Red Mountains treated their bastards cruelly. She had been called freeloader, but never the things she heard from the castle’s servants about their warden falling victim to the dragon queen’s beauty. They were happier with him after the battle, but it had proven short lived.

_It’s what we get for naming a bastard king. He is a creature of lust who only knows how to think with the wrong head. The lot of them are._

“You’re right,” Elia said. _And Jon will always be a Snow._ “Please tell me the flames haven’t told you that the winter will reach south of the Red Mountains. Snow doesn’t belong in the desert. It goes against nature.”

Lady Melisandre grinned, but it gave away no answers. “The Lord of Light shows me much, but still even the most devout are kept in the dark about some matters. He has only shown me that which he deems necessary.”

Elia frowned. If that was the case, she liked the Stark’s old gods better. They let Bran Stark see whatever he wanted. 

But then again, it was good that Lady Melisandre was not all-knowing. As much as she wanted to know others’ secrets, she was glad the woman didn’t know her own. With that thought in mind, she excused herself from the ladies. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m under strict orders to not ride too many hours a day. I’ll retire to the carriage.”

“You actually obeying my medical advice about resting? That’s not suspicious _at all_,” Sarella said, making her snort again.

“If I don’t get out of this wretched snow, I’m going to become very unpleasant company. We wouldn’t want the men to see their princess like that, would we?” Elia asked, already signaling her horse to turn around. The company started to halt before she waved for them to continue. She motioned to Ser Horan to take the lead before tipping her head goodbye to the trio. “You all should join me for supper tonight.”

“Of course, princess,” Sarella said, still studying her as though she would find the secret on her person. She already knew of the secret the princess was keeping, but likely didn’t connect that was where she was going. The princess knight hadn’t talked to their secret guest since leaving Winterfell, after all.

“Until then,” Lady Melisandre said, tipping her head gracefully before trodding up to join Ser Heran.

“I’ll have a servant come fetch you once we reach the inn,” the princess called over her shoulder as she rode towards her carriage. 

Elia was careful to not open the door too widely when she slipped inside her carriage. She hadn’t been lying to them. Normally, she loved riding, but winter and the gash still healing in her side had stolen the fun from it. 

The man waiting for her inside had his hand on his sword ready to kill her in an instant, but he relaxed when he saw it was only her. They hadn’t spoken the entire journey. He had been trusted with Sarella, and her best friend had not disappointed. Nobody knew he was there, but he had put them at risk long enough.

“I haven’t left the carriage like you said,” Bronn grumbled. When she raised her brow, he huffed. “That bad, huh? Go on, then. Spit it out. A blind man with half a brain could see I’m not going to like it.”

Elia huffed, annoyed she couldn’t tell him he was wrong.

“I didn’t kill you when I discovered you had snuck into my army because I wanted the queen to decide what to do with you. Everyone knows that you should always bring a gift when meeting royalty, if you want to make the right impression,” Elia said, shrugging as the sellsword stared at her as though she had gone mental with her random speech. “I saved you _from_ the queen’s decision because of my love for Sarella. I could care less what happens to you, if it weren’t for her affections. But you are safe now. We are out of Winterfell, and you are liability I can’t afford.”

“Yer about to tell me to leave,” Bronn said, his eyebrow twitching. She could tell he was trying to stay calm – they couldn’t afford to be heard by people outside – but it was clear he didn’t like the idea. Maybe he did love Sarella, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous.

“I don’t care where you go, as long as you don’t get caught. And if you do, I had nothing to do with your escape,” she said.

“Don’t worry. I’m not a squeaker,” Bronn growled, before kicking his foot up next to her on the bench. She narrowed her eyes at the gesture, knowing how dirty his boots were, but he didn’t move. “I might not be a Lannister, but I know I owe ya’. I can disappear.”

“Good. I’m prepared to give you one-hundred dragons to leave right now. Another hundred will be anonymously deposited into your account with the Iron Bank for every year you stay hidden,” Elia said, knowing the man she was working with. She pulled the wooden board from underneath her bench and pulled out the bag of dragons. The gold clinked as she moved to hand it to him, but he stayed sat frozen.

A brief flicker of horror passed over his face, but then he crossed his arms over his chest and sunk deeper so that he was nearly laying down. “I don’t need yer gold to know I need to disappear,” he said. But then he surprised her further when he looked her in the eye and added, “But I will say goodbye to Sarella. I get to explain everythin’.”

“Of course, but the gold’s still yours,” Elia said. She realized she didn’t have anything else to say to him, but she had told Sarella and the red woman she was resting. They weren’t stopping at the inn for hours yet, so until then, they were stuck in one another’s company.

“That dragon lady is a raging cunt,” Bronn said after a few minutes of silence. The suddenness of the statement made her laugh before she could stop herself. But then she realized his words were filled with a resigned fear, and she worried yet again if she had knelt to the right monarch. “You saw her burn the dead. That was nothin’ compared to the Goldroad. She burned men to ash, not even bones left of ‘em. I promised myself I was going to run the other way if we had to fight them again.”

“You weren’t running away when you snuck into my army.”

“I didn’t count on being caught… or the trials,” he mumbled. “Thought I could make it to Winterfell and talk ta’ Jaime and Tyrion with you none the wiser.”

Once the trials were announced at the war meeting, Elia knew that there was no chance for both men to survive. After speaking with the Northern servant, Mya, the night before the trial, Elia already knew in her heart that she likely wasn’t going to call Jaime Lannister guilty, and his story of the Mad King had only affirmed that. She liked him well enough, but it was mainly that she knew very few people that deserved to die by being burned alive. He was definitely not one of them. Not after he marched North alone to keep his pledge to defend the living.

“I learned that men shit themselves when they die when I was five. I learned what men sound like when they’re burning ta’ death at the Battle of the Blackwater. I’ve seen a lot in my time, princess, and I’ve never run,” Bronn continued. “But I’m telling you, no one can win against her. No one will see or hear from me ever again.”

“I know that it is I that is telling you to disappear, but your eagerness betrays your cowardice,” Elia hissed.

Bronn shrugged but didn’t respond. Elia didn’t push for a response. Then she might be tempted to yell, for nothing angered her more than a coward, but then people would hear her, and this would all be for naught.

So instead, she turned to a more comfortable position and let them fall back into silence. Her side wasn’t just an excuse to talk to Bronn. The injury was _burning_, and Sarella wouldn’t be able to check on her stitches until they stopped for the night. The insistent throbbing and never-ending journey through ice itself was making her more irritable by the second. Bronn was stuck with the foul mood that she was trying to shield her people from.

“Let me guess. Tyrion chose being the Hand of the Queen over you, and now you’re upset,” Bronn said, mistaking her foul mood. “Don’t take it personally. I’ve seen it before. He’ll never love anyone as much as he loves the game.”

“Mm,” Elia said, not knowing how else to respond. Though his words were blunt, his tone wasn’t unkind. He was just spouting facts at her.

“He was never a good option for you, anyway. Dorne would never accept a Lannister for yer husband,” he continued.

“Mm,” Elia repeated.

Bronn grimaced, apparently _just_ realizing how much he’d soured her already poor mood. “I’m just sayin’, it’s a good thing you got out of there, is all.”

Elia closed her eyes, resting her head back on the smooth but worn cushion behind her. She was glad when he didn’t add anything else, and soon he started to snore.

Even though Bronn had been a far cry from what was causing her foul mood, the thought of Tyrion only made it worse. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of the man since leaving Winterfell. She wasn’t jealous at Tyrion’s past with women. How could she be with her own that matched?

It was rather the realization that their futures brought them down different paths. Her life would stay in Starfall, and his in King’s Landing. She was startled at how much that realization saddened her. He was only supposed to be a way to pass her boredom in a strange kingdom, but he was so charming and clever. It pulled her in.

Hopefully, the wedding would be right after the coronation. She would rather one, longer trip, than have to prepare herself to go to King’s Landing twice. Dealing with other kingdoms had never ended well for the Dornish. Not since the late princess and her own namesake, Elia Martell, married Rhaegar Targaryen. Then, Oberyn Martell fell. Then, Prince Dorian (by a Dornish hand, yes, but due to his own cowardice to go against the blood-thirsty lion queen). And then, finally, Ellaria Sand. Anything that had to do with outsiders ended with a dead Dorneman.

She wondered if she could vow to never go north of the Red Mountains again. To go back to her world where the other six kingdoms were ‘the north’. If Lady Stark could get away with self-confinement to her own kingdom, why couldn’t she?

War had seemed like such a better idea back in the summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Brienne was right! And our southern princess is not a blind loyalist who does whatever her queen wants when it goes against her friends... and maybe kingdom?
> 
> On a different note, I upgraded my phone plan and now have HBO Max so guess what I'm binging... and is it bad if I stop at Season 6?


	39. Jaime

As the soldiers were in their last inn before they reached Riverrun, so they were all well into their cups. Then it would just be tents in the snow for the next three nights. The weeks of travel in the snow had been difficult, and he often found himself longing for Brienne’s company, but he hadn’t lost any more limbs, so he considered it a well-enough trip. 

Jaime repeated to himself that once the war was won, Sansa had promised that Brienne and he would have quiet quarters in the Great Keep near Sansa’s – most importantly, with vents connected to the underground hot springs. Whenever he asked a Stark how to access the actual springs, they would remain annoyingly tight-lipped. He knew that all of them, even that Waters boy, made regular trips when they wanted away from their duties. He could admit he’d tried to follow them to find the entrance, but they all knew these halls better than he ever would. At times, he swore that he would blink, and the youngest Stark would disappear into thin air. He had narrowed down the entrance to somewhere in the Great Keep, but he hadn’t gained any more knowledge on the matter since pledging to their house.

Damn honor, making him go back on the road. Damn ale, for making him whine like a greenboy.

“I’m just saying, I can see why the Northerners keep to themselves if it takes this long to get anywhere else. And that’s not even bringing up the mountains of snow,” Jaime said. And it wasn’t going to get any better. He remembered when Sansa had told him weeks ago that the seas had already frozen as far south as Cape Kraken, so he could only imagine how far south the ice now stretched. The Iron Born would be useless on both sides soon enough, if not already. He still remembered his dread at his new lady’s parting words.

“The Night King is dead, but the Long Night is not over, ser,” Sansa had said when she’d handed him gold to pay for inns along the King’s Road, and he had denied claiming that she should keep it for more important things. He was a Lannister, and he hadn’t considered it stealing when he had taken several bags of his father’s gold with him when he had left King’s Landing. “Winter is here. Even a normal one kills _North_men every year, and you are still a man of the south. Ser Clegane, too. You will stay in inns as much as possible. That is final.”

_Winter is here_, and it wasn’t going anywhere any time soon. There had been something chilling about hearing those three words from a Stark. 

“It’s half the trip from the Twins to Riverrun, at least,” Ser Jorah said, but the large gulps he took from his ale gave his true feelings away. Whenever songs and storytellers spoke of war, they forgot to mention the marching. How long and boring the whole ordeal was, until it wasn’t. 

“I’ll have you know I made this trip already once. What man deserves to make it twice?” he pouted, thinking of how as long as the journey would be south, it would be even longer and slower to get back to Winterfell after, when winter’s grip on the lands was firm.

“Didn’t the Stark boy drag you around the Riverlands as his prisoner?” the Hound said, elbowing Jaime in the shoulder.

Jaime huffed. The Hound had always been a direct man, but now that he wasn’t Joffrey’s personal dog, he was even more opinionated. “He was smart enough to not leave me with a lord that might be bought off, but it didn’t matter in the end. I still escaped back to King’s Landing,” he said.

“Right, thanks to Brienne of fucking Tarth,” the Hound said, chugging the rest of his ale. He motioned over to the inn’s servant girl, who came readily with another pint once he held up his coin. “Bronn told me that you wanted to fuck her, but I didn’t believe it until I heard that wildling whinging about the ‘King Killer’ stealing his woman before he had the chance.”

“You wouldn’t fuck her?” Jaime asked. His bluntness surprised him, but he relished in the way the Hound’s eyes widened. Brienne had always been insecure about her appearance, but the woman didn’t realize how many men her unique beauty could reel in. He was thankful in his confidence that she was his, as he was hers – even though he didn’t deserve it.

“I might,” the Hound eventually admitted. He shrugged before taking a large bite out of his chicken. A piece landed on the bottom of his beard. “Got to say, I didn’t see you pledging your sword to the little bird.”

“Who?” Jorah asked, hiccupping as he leaned back in his seat. It was clear the man was a sleepy drunk. He kept blinking, each time his eyes opening back up a little less. “Bird? You can’t tell me you haven’t learned by now that the Stark’s sigil is a wolf.”

“It’s what he used to call her in King’s Landing,” Jaime explained patiently. “And Cersei called her a little dove. I don’t know why you both still call her that, when it hasn’t been true in years. She’s a wolf, and the wolf bites.”

“Aye, she’s no bird, but he has a point, Lannister. Why did you swear her your sword?”

Jaime frowned. Sometimes Jorah was the farthest thing from a Northerner as anyone he’d ever met, and then sometimes he would be so painfully blunt that Jaime didn’t doubt his origins. He didn’t like being pushed into a corner for an answer, but it was one he was proud of. “Every knight dreams of pledging their sword to a lord or lady that they can believe in. I thought that dream lost until I saw how she ruled her people.”

“Besides, she is Ned Stark’s true heir. Her father’s sword, Ice, is hers by right, but the lady does not fight her battles with swords. Brienne protects her with one half, Oathkeeper, and I protect her with the other, Nightwarder.”

“What did that cunt name it again?” the Hound asked, motioning to the sword at his hip.

“Widow’s Wail,” Jaime said quietly, earning raised brows from Ser Jorah. He took another sip of his ale, eager for the excuse to avoid their stares.

That was when he realized that he didn’t recognize any of the men sitting around them. Their company had mostly gone to bed, with them among a few stragglers.

Then he noticed that all of the new faces were armed and watching them very closely, occasionally glancing at the four of his soldiers still in the inn’s small pub. 

Jaime cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to alarm either of you, but I do believe we are surrounded.”

A few of the new men chuckled, and there was the sound of swords being drawn. But the three were not standard swordsmen, and they all jumped smoothly from their chairs, weapons already raised. His ale suddenly tried to jump back up his throat at the quick motion, and he almost coughed as he swallowed it back down.

This is what happened when he indulged. His siblings constantly sang praises of wine, but every time he tried to drink something bad happened. 

“Two cripples and an old geezer,” one of the men said, making the others break out into another fit of laughter. The man was mostly bald but had a long, wiry beard. The glint in his eye told Jaime he was the type of man who enjoyed preying on the weak – he would enjoy proving the man wrong. He would never be the swordsman he once was, but the constant practice with Brienne, Jon, and even Arya had sharpened his blade once more.

“Asked me a couple years ago, I would’a been nervous to take the Hound. But then I heard about how you ran like a kicked pup at the Battle of the Blackwater and have been hiding ever since… you’ve gone soft,” he said before turning to Jaime. “And you? When you were Kingslayer, at least I still respected you, but now? The One-Handed Knight? I hear you’re sucking the utters of that cow of a–”

“You’re going to try to kill us? Be smart about this,” Ser Jorah said quickly, likely trying to stop the man’s speech before Jaime reacted and did something stupid. The Northern exile looking around at all the sellswords before shooting Jaime a warning glare that he was talking to him, too. “We need only shout and dozens of men will be upon you at once.”

“We’re not going to kill _you_, but you’ll wish we did,” the soon-to-be dead man said. His friends chortled, thinking their friend clever.

Jaime grabbed his knife from his left hip, throwing it before anyone react. He had started practicing the moment Arya showed off her accuracy once. He was not as consistent as her yet, but his knife still sliced through its target all the same. The dead man’s mouth fell into an ‘o’ as the blade sliced through his eye to his brain. He fell to the ground like a sack of flour, making several of his comrades startle.

“You might want to shout now,” Jaime said. Two men charged him, and he frowned. The sellswords were fair enough swordsmen, or at least good enough to fight against a drunk man fighting with his only newly dominant hand. And while he knew it was never a good idea to think of what the battle would be like with his right, he still did. Both men would be dead already.

At least the One-Handed Knight was a memorable name. Maybe they’d write songs of his heroics after all.

Jorah shouted something in Valyrian, and Jaime could only hope the sleeping soldiers heard them. He hoped to apologize to the innkeeper for bringing the war into her halls, but the hollow look she gave the scene before moving to hide in the kitchen reminded him just how much more the North had been hit than the other kingdoms.

Their soldiers were quick, and a dozen Unsullied and Lannister soldiers rushed to their aid, but the sellswords were smart, too. The inn’s hallway was narrow, and several of them formed a wall with shields to keep their men from reaching them. He heard chaos behind him and saw the reaction to it from the Unsullied in the corner of his eye. But if he looked, he would definitely die, and that would go against the exact promise he made to both Brienne and his brother. Damn being one-handed. Damn being drunk.

The minutes stretched, and the fight was no closer to being won or loss. It wasn’t until the front doors slammed open to reveal the Red Woman and a dozen Dornish soldiers that Jaime thought he might not break his promise after all.

Their numbers were enough to turn the tides, and Jaime sagged back into his chair when the last enemy fell dead to the floor. He picked back up his ale, happy to see his glass untouched from the brawl.

“Where is he?” Lady Melisandre asked.

“Who?” the Hound ground back, plopping back down to rejoin Jaime. He shoved another large piece of chicken in his mouth.

“Jorah of House Mormont,” the red woman said with urgency.

Jaime looked around again, noticing the man gone for the first time, but immediately realizing what had happened. They had taken him because _of course_ that would be his sister’s move. Although the scandal of his marriage with Lady Lynesse Hightower, along with his crimes, had spread far and wide, Jaime still liked the man well enough. It wasn’t his fault he’d fallen in love with an evil woman hellbent on manipulating his love for her… twice. He could judge the man least of anyone. And no one deserved his sister’s wrath – except maybe the dragon queen.

“They took him,” he voiced his realization aloud.

Lady Melisandre looked around at the dead bodies. She briefly closed her eyes before turning to him. “Where would they have taken him?”

“To the Twins, or possibly the swamps, where the dragons can’t find them,” Jaime said, biting back his remark to ask her precious flames. “They won’t kill him. Cersei will want his execution to be very public, where it’ll hurt the Targaryen the most.”

_And then she’ll burn the whole bloody seven kingdoms to the ground._

The red woman looked at him for a moment before saying, “We’ll have to tell her.”

The Hound was grumbling, and he walked over to the crying servant girl to demand more ale before he turned back towards them. “How are you here?”

“Not that we’re not grateful for the rescue,” Jaime added quickly. Once of his men had followed behind them, shooting down any of Ser Jorah or the Unsullied’s ravens.

“I saw them take him in the flames,” she said. He might’ve snorted, if not for her supposed prophecy’s accuracy. “I hoped for us to reach you before it could come to pass. The rest of the army are three days behind us.”

It was then that one of the fallen sellswords at his feet groaned. Jaime knelt down next to him, roughly grabbing him by the shirt until they were eye to eye. “Where are they bringing Jorah? Who sent you?”

The man coughed, blood spurting out. He only groaned, but when Jaime shook him, the man answered, “Ilyn… Payne. Twins. Beheading… want her to see.”

Jaime saw something flash in Lady Melisandre’s gaze over the man’s shoulder, but it was gone before he could identify it. When he looked back to continue his questioning, he realized the man already dead. He dropped him before standing back up, wiping his hand on his trousers.

“Well, then. At least we don’t have to lose men to the swamps,” he said.

“I will send a raven to Queen Daenerys and Princess Elia,” Lady Melisandre said. Her face and voice were completely devoid of emotion as she looked at him. “I hope you are ready, Kingslayer, for what is to come. The night is dark and full of terrors."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Another update :) sooooo I don't think it takes a genius to guess where I'm going with this/what plot point I'm changing?! To me, the only reason that Jorah died in the Battle for Winterfell was because they needed characters to die to make in "realistic" and they killed a bunch of B and C characters to do that... Any guesses where "Lady Melisandre's" "prophecy in the flames" really came from?


	40. Missandei

“And what of you and Torgo Nudho?” Daenerys asked, her lips twisted into a mischievous smirk. The pair were in her queen’s guest chambers, gossiping while doing one another’s hair in a way they hadn’t in a long while. The North had made Daenerys more sporadic and quicker to anger. She loved seeing the glimpses of the woman she once was.

Missandei blushed as she looked down, memories of how her lover woke her flashing in her memory. The way his already dark eyes turned molten black when he looked up at her between her legs. The way he worshipped every inch of her skin with his hands and tongue. She had never remembered being so sore, but her sex still throbbed delightfully every time she thought of it.

“He is very generous, Your Grace,” Missandei said as her friend began twisting a small braid over her forehead.

“Generous?” Daenerys prompted her to continue, her gaze light and teasing.

Missandei’s face heated as her blush deepened. Lady Stark had called Torgo Nudho’s favorite… pastime the Lord’s Kiss. The Northern Lady had been well into her cups, something she only did late at night when her duties were well and truly finished. 

When she’d been invited to sup with the lady of the castle that night, the surprises had followed one after the other. The first being that she was the sole invitee for the dinner. The second was that she had not once brought up politics in any form, the closest being occasionally asking for translations of words in High Valyrian and Dothraki. Instead they had gossiped about what knight was fawning over what lady, and Lady Sansa had shared how the Free Folk ‘stole’ their women (the women had a choice despite their choice in term). She talked of a Northern Lord in love with a Free Folk woman, and how she wasn’t sure which culture they would embrace. 

But the third surprise was so unexpected, it had stayed at the forefront of her thoughts since the lady brought it up. Sansa had pulled a small, neatly folded handkerchief from atop her desk. It was midnight blue with a grey pattern stitched into it. An owl with great horns and large wings stretched in flight stared back at her. The Northern Lady had also stitched a wonderfully complicated but elegant pattern around it. Small figure eights surrounded the nocturnal creature in a circle, surrounded by a mixture of swirling and sharp shapes that seamlessly shifted into the border. Each corner was emphasized by a spearhead, but the border was made of twisting roots with thorns and budding flowers.

“The owl is believed to be the smartest of all birds. Their beaks are small but deadly, and they have exceptionally good vision, especially in the dark, that allows them to be good hunters. Some people claim them the heralds of death, but others think they are symbols of wisdom and endurance. I thought it a good sigil for you and Torgo Nudho,” Sansa had said. “I know you two plan to leave for Naath, and I would never stop you, but I wanted to let you know that if you _wanted_ to say, you are welcome. Even if you didn’t, I think it would do you well to have your own sigil to put on your flags, and well, if my home is any indication, everything else, too… If you don’t like it, I won’t be offended, but every great house has a sigil, so… you would still have to come up with your own words. And house name, too. Those are given as much as they are chosen.”

Missandei had been frozen in shock, not able to look away from the neatly stitched owl. “What would you name our house?” she had asked.

“Dāervez,” Sansa had said simply. _Freedom_.

“Missandei?” Daenerys asked gently, dragging her back to the present.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” Missandei said, quickly trying to remember what they had been talking about. Immediately, her cheeks warmed again. “Yes, generous. He, ah, likes when I… but he prefers to give me all of…”

Torgo Nudho had confided in her that her trust in him to let him do whatever he wanted to her – watching her reaching her peak again and again because of him – was what gave him the most pleasure. 

“Oh? By that expression on your face, I can see he is very _talented_,” Daenerys said. “I admit I never would’ve thought that of him. You so often hear that men make love how they fight and he is rather…”

“I don’t know about that. He does this… the Westerosi call it the Lord’s Kiss,” she said, the heat from her blush spreading down her neck the longer the queen looked at her, eyebrow raised in curiosity. “He kisses me _there_.”

Now, both of Daenerys’s brows raised before a light giggle slipped. Seeing her like this almost made her forget about all of her recent doubts. “If your face is anything to go by, I’ll have to try it myself,” she said. But as soon as she did, all joy left her eyes until they were somehow both cold and blazing at the same time.

“Jon Snow has still not come back to your bed?” she asked cautiously.

“Just another reason I can’t wait to leave this godforsaken land. He is right, though. He lives in the same hallway as all of his cousins. Someone would notice,” Daenerys said. But then the strain in her jaw relaxed, and her scowl morphed into a frown. Missandei didn’t realize how long it had been since she saw compassion from the queen until she saw it now. When had been the last time? The burned child? She couldn’t remember. “He’s also terrified of fathering a bastard. It’s not that I don’t understand. But that was _the North and his family _that treated him so poorly, and our child would _know_ they are a prince or princess. It would be different.”

Missandei hesitated. First, at the word ‘cousins’. Then again, at Daenerys’s phrasing of ‘our child would _know’_. And finally, because she was talking as though she could have children… The only time she had ever seen Daenerys cry in all their years of knowing one another had been when she’d told her the story of the witch cursing her to be barren. That had been years ago. Had denial resurfaced once she had met Jon? She could hardly blame her if it had. Torgo Nudho had confided in her he had never wanted to be a father until he had met her. To have one’s ability to give children taken away was a fate she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy, let alone the two people she loved the most.

“The Westerosi are strange, Your Grace,” Missandei said, thinking back to when Tyrion and Varys had first told them about the then King of the North after her conversation with the man. How he was a bastard and what that meant. It was amazing how much one could learn about a culture through its language, but it was unthinkable how much she had not known before being taken by the woman in front of her. “Even if you and Jon were to treat the child as ‘trueborn’, there will be always be people to whisper when they think you can’t hear them.”

“No one will speak ill of my child,” Daenerys hissed. “They will know better than to say anything against their future queen or king.”

Missandei tried to push down the dread that began to prickle at the back of her neck at her words. The threats of more dragonfire behind them. That threat used to not bother her, and she didn’t want to think about why that might have changed. But she had spent years at the queen’s right shoulder, and she knew how to help guide her towards the path she could not yet see. “It is good that you will be married quickly, then, so you needn’t wait long,” she said. When the muscle in the queen’s jaw twitched, she continued, refusing to yield to the small voice that told her not to push. But the queen had said ‘cousins’… “It is only that who better to know the truth of what it means to be a bastard of a highborn in Westeros than Jon Snow?”

Daenerys stood up taller behind her, the sudden flash of both anger and fear clear in the mirror as she finished tying her braid. She stepped back and walked towards her favorite chair by the hearth, expecting Missandei to follow. When they both settled, Daenerys studied her for several seconds before she spoke. Her voice was quiet but strong, “There is something I need to tell you, but it must remain in confidence. His brother saw it in a vision, so I’m not entirely sure we can trust the source.”

Missandei sat perfectly still as she cleared her mind. She could tell whatever Daenerys was about to say was going to change things, and she wanted – _needed_ – to be able to hear it without letting her emotions cloud her judgement.

“Bran Stark claims that he saw a vision of his father, Eddard Stark, at the Tower of Joy, when he tried to save his sister, Lyanna,” Daenerys said, nostrils flaring slightly. She paused and turned to the fire before continuing, her face a blank mask but the sharpness in her tone giving away her underlying anger, “That he found Lyanna Stark with a babe – the son of my brother, Rhaegar Targaryen. That her dying wish was for him to protect their son. That they named him _Viserys_.”

Whatever Missandei had expected to hear, it was not that. She knew immediately who the babe in the story was, and the realization sent her thoughts running in a thousand different directions. She stayed quiet for several minutes, and Daenerys let her while continuing to stare blankly in the fire.

“Does this mean that Jon Snow– that Viserys Sand is the heir to the Iron Throne?” she asked quietly. That could be the only reason the queen – or was it lady now? – was upset about finding out a lost family member was alive.

“What? Of course not,” Daenerys said, scoffing.

“But does Westeros culture not dictate lineage follow the oldest child’s family line?” Missandei asked, thinking back to her lessons from both Sansa and Tyrion.

“Oh, Missandei,” Daenerys said, finally turning to look at her with pity before grabbing her hands. “They would only choose him because he is a _man_.”

Daenerys spoke as if she was explaining this to a child, and Missandei bristled. It was not that she did not mind people attempting to teach her – she had learned she was thirsty for knowledge, so she craved it even – but the patronizing expression that she was looking at her with sparked something in her she could not yet identify. The woman who had once looked at her with nothing but respect…

She would not say it, but Missandei could think of a hundred other reasons why Westeros would choose Jon Snow – Viserys Sand? The name didn’t suit him – as their king. He was born and raised in their land by a man known fondly as ‘the most honorable man Westeros had ever known’. He and his sister had won back Winterfell against all odds and with it restored a united North ruled by respect instead of fear. He was not too proud to bend the knee to save his people. He was the reason there was an army ready to stop the dead, saving millions of lives. He killed the Night King and saved them all.

The queen refusing to give the people the choice, deciding it was wrong _for_ them, sent a growingly familiar sense of unease swirling around in her stomach.

“I suppose it’s good that you are marrying him, then,” Missandei said. “Even if word of his heritage gets to the people – which I’m sure is a secret that could never be kept for too long – your union will remove any possible dissent.”

“_I_ will be the queen, and he _my_ consort,” Daenerys said firmly. But then her eyes softened, “But I am ready to have him as my husband. We will wed within the same moon as my coronation. I fear if I let him go back North after we win the throne, Lady Stark will try to find a way to make sure he never returns south.”

Again, Missandei hesitated before she spoke. All of the pair’s interactions replayed through her mind with the new realization that they were cousins, and that they very likely have known this fact for some time. She had seen how Jon’s eyes always hesitated on Sansa for a beat too long. How the ire in Sansa’s expression when seeing Daenerys and Jon together was somehow different that what she felt against Daenerys for her people. The way they ran the castle together how Tyrion had described a lord husband and lady wife would. The song she had heard the Northerners sing when they thought the queen’s people couldn’t hear of a red and white wolf that saved the North.

Suddenly, Jon’s game became too clear. He had given in to Daenerys’s flirtations because he had correctly believed it would win them her dragon and armies. He was marrying her because it was the best way to avoid civil war. He would never love Daenerys the way she desired because his heart was already taken by another.

“The celebrations will be good for the people’s spirit after so much war,” Missandei said.

“It will show the people that Westeros will be different under my rule. Better. Happier,” Daenerys said. She leaned back, resuming her position to stare into the fire. “You have become rather close with Lady Stark.”

“She has been a very generous host,” Missandei said carefully.

“She means to steal you from me,” Daenerys spat, face flushed red in anger as she continued without meeting her gaze, “I know you are clever. I know you can see it, but I worry about you. She is smarter than she lets on, and I fear for how she manipulates you.”

Missandei again thought of the handkerchief. It was true that Sansa Stark was actively trying to turn her against Daenerys. It was manipulation in its finest, using the truth to make her think the way she wanted her to. But if the truth was all that was used, was it truly manipulation? Or was it not just helping her see what she had been blinded to before?

“I will be careful, Your Grace,” she said.

“But I suppose it will be good for me to have another advisor she can work with besides Jon,” she said, huffing. “She will be the next wedding after mine. Jon doesn’t like my plan – an idea I’m sure she put there – but really, they’re too close to the problem. She simply must marry Tormund Giantsbane to ensure peace with the Wildlings. They get along quite well. Who knows, maybe the Wildling will even show her what it means to live outside _duty_. Honestly, the woman is colder than the statues in their crypt.”

“Would you like me to bring it up to her? She will likely be reluctant to the idea of marrying so soon,” Missandei said.

“Jon will do it. The groom is one of his closest friends, and the bride raised as his sister. He will be the best person to tell them both,” Daenerys said, waving her off. “But, no matter. You just made me realize something. You and Torgo Nudho have both done well in the North. If his lady sister tries to steal him too often under the pretense of ‘helping the North’ after we are wed, you two can go in his stead.”

The opening was clear. She had to tell her. And Torgo Nudho was right. The longer they waited, the more she planned under the assumption they were staying, the worse it would be.

“Actually, I…” Missandei started, pausing when Daenerys’s eyes snapped to her, “Torgo Nudho and I have been talking. Once your throne is won, we are going to go back to Naath.”

The fire crackling in the hearth was suddenly very loud as Daenerys stared at her. Her face was hard to read. Anger? Disappointment? Fear? Insecurity?

“I don’t understand. Are you unhappy? Have I made you angry?”

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Missandei said. She turned and sat up straighter, folding her hands carefully as she looked into her oldest friend’s eyes. She needed her to see everything she was feeling, too. The truth in what she was about to say. “You are right that we have enjoyed our time here in the North, despite the cold, but it is not home. Just as you have been called back to King’s Landing because it is the home your people built for you centuries ago, I too want to return to where my people are. Children are still stolen from the beaches every year, and Naath has no armies or form of protection to make it stop. We want to bring them peace as you will do for Westeros.”

“Sansa put this idea in your head, didn’t she?” Daenerys hissed, eyes narrowed. “I told you that she would manipulate you. I thought she wanted you for herself but to know she wants to banish you–”

“Returning home is not banishment,” Missandei said firmly. Daenerys looked about as surprised as she felt about her interruption, but she still continued, “And she did not. We had decided this before I ever began meeting with her, but I think I’ve wanted this for long before then, too. Please, I do not ask this for any other reason that what is driving you now. I want to go home.”

“Missandei, you’re my closest friend,” Daenerys said, suddenly looking younger. Lost, even. “I never pictured my new world without you by my side. You’ve always believed in me. Defended me. Helped me remember who I am when the world tries to tell me I am _less_.”

“And you have taught me that I belong to no one but myself,” Missandei said. 

It was true. Before she had been stood silent as men groped at her while she was forced to translate their vulgar conversations. She had seen thousands of cracks in their armor, but she had always known that this life was better than no life at all. She had not seen the third option.

Freedom.

And now that she had it, she was never giving it up again.

“Is it something I did? Are you… are you _angry_ with me?” Daenerys asked. The violet in her eyes was brighter, and her shoulders were tense as if she was preparing for a blow.

“Of _course_ not, Your Grace,” Missandei said. She hesitated for only a moment before grabbing her friend’s hands. “We will help you win your throne. We would never abandon you when–”

“But you are, aren’t you? I am going to change Westeros as they know it, and you’re– you want to leave that? A world where justice is met with justice, and where all women and men are equal and free?”

_And if you wanted to sail home to Naath tomorrow?_

“I only want to do for my home what you are doing for yours,” she said as gently as she could, squeezing Daenerys’s hand.

“And you plan to take my army, too?” Daenerys said. _Yes_, she wanted to say, _against the _slavers_. The _masters_._ “No, this will need to be discussed. Perhaps Daario Naharis can spare some of his men to guard Naath’s shores. Bring it up to Varys and Tyrion if you like. See if they can be as clever as they think they are.”

_Then she would give me a ship and wish me good fortune._

“Of course, Your Grace,” Missandei said, proud that her voice did not shake. Her stomach was heavy, and she had to fight the urge from running. “Any news from Jorah Mormont–” the slave trader “–or the princess?”

“None yet from Jorah.” Daenerys stopped, her eyes narrowing briefly before her lips twisted into a cold smile. Missandei knew it well. She had used it on the masters. Missandei’s desire to go home had made the queen suspicious of her. “Lady Elia has been writing frequently.”

_You believe that?_

Daenerys did not say more. Her friend that had often relished in their friendship had shared everything without hesitation because she knew that Missandei would never betray her was now not sure how much she should say. All from Missandei’s desire to go home.

Missandei carefully took her hand out of Daenerys’s before standing up. She bowed her head, the action suddenly feeling like muscle memory more than anything else.

“If I do not leave now, I never will,” Missandei said lightly, desperate to pretend the distance between them was all in her mind.

_I know it._

“Actually, I need you here today. I’ve invited Lady Sansa for tea, and I need you to mediate,” Daenerys said. It was not a question. Her voice was deeper, and her eyes were hard. They flicked to the third chair around the hearth, a silent order to sit. “I _can_ trust with you this?” 

“Of course, Your Grace,” Missandei said. She sat down in the other chair, frowning at the cold wood. She had noticed it, of course, but just had assumed the queen was having guests after she left. Of course she would do this for the queen, but….

_Of course, you’re serving her now, aren’t you?_

“It is time for Lady Stark to bend the knee,” Daenerys said. Her smile was small but genuine. “Tyrion and Varys call the fight for my Throne a game. I know Sansa does, too. They think I cannot play it. I wonder if people will stop underestimating me once the Throne is mine.”

“It is their mistake,” Missandei said, happy when Daenerys did not respond. She turned to the fire as it crackled loudly. She had never feared it before, but now something prickled at the back of her neck. She stared into it, refusing to recognize the feeling for what it was.

But then the fire screamed, sounding like a million different people all at once. Missandei couldn’t look away, the pull too strong. 

The flames showed her a castle on the edge of a bay, and its bright, unique color meant it could only be the Red Keep. With the water on one side, and the city behind it thriving with life, it should’ve been a beautiful sight. But the screaming was getting louder. 

What she saw next could not have been true. The denial tasted sour in her mouth, but it was nothing compared to… She didn’t know what to do. She knew she couldn’t do it alone, but there were very few that she could trust.

Missandei continued to stare at the flames until long after the vision had faded away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another one of Dany's loyalists now questioning her! As always, I would love to hear your thoughts :)


	41. Daenerys

Daenerys thought she hated the North before, but now she made a vow to never return. Her dragons had long since left, seeking somewhere warmer to find their food while their mother froze inside a castle. It was good that Jon Snow would want to return on her behalf, and she could leave the kingdom to him without ever caring about it again herself. 

She sat in her favorite chair next to her hearth. Even with the fire blazing and piles of furs over her, she was just warm enough to stop her shivering. She looked to Missandei in the chair on the other side – an empty one between them reserved for her guest due to arrive any moment now – to see that the woman looked much warmer than herself despite too growing up in the much warmer south.

Her pulse was still racing from her closest friend’s request. It had made sense to her in a way. Essos had returned back to its old ways, and Daenerys was truly heartbroken about that. She made herself regularly think of each and every one of their faces that she could remember. And it helped her think of the perfect solution.

Her ancestor Aegon the Dragon had conquered Westeros. She would take back her birthright, and then she would liberate Essos. She would become queen in the west and the east. 

Yes, she was more clever than any of them. _When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east._ She would save them all, and then she could have a child.

She would be Daenerys the Dragon. Daenerys the Liberator. Daenerys the Conqueror. She would free the entire world. Then Missandei and Torgo Nudho would not need to leave her. She couldn’t wait to tell her, but she couldn’t risk it now. Missandei had been… different lately, and she didn’t know how she would react anymore. She would wait until after they handled Lady Stark.

At least her rooms were warmer. The only good thing about the snowstorm was that they had moved her into the Great Keep, which included heated walls and vents. She had barely been able to stop herself from confronting Lady Stark about not putting her in a room here as soon as she had arrived, but there was no point since she would never return to the castle in the future. Although, seeing how frequently one of the Starks were wandering the halls at all hours made her happier that Jon hadn’t been lying when he said that they would get caught.

She had doubted him once when she saw regret in his face when she mentioned it one time. When he had explained he was a bastard and it was his greatest fear to father one, she had thought it was rather obvious that they could wed the second she found out so that he or she was born trueborn.

There was a knock on her door, and she nodded to the guard that popped his head inside for him to let her guest in. Lady Stark came in a few seconds later, the woman somehow covered in a thin layer of sweat despite wearing only a thick dress.

“Thank you for coming, my lady,” Daenerys said, motioning to the empty chair next to her. The woman’s constant air of self-importance still irritated her, but now that Daenerys realized that Jon Snow had been well and truly busy with the Night King like he had claimed to be, she found his family much easier to like. He still spent a few hours a day with all of them, but the rest of the time he spent walking the castle with her.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lady Stark said before taking the offered seat. She smiled in greeting to Missandei before turning to look up and down her queen, giving her a barely-there smile. “I can see if we can find some more furs for you, if you would like.”

“No, I wouldn’t want to take them from those that really need them,” Daenerys said, her words making the supposed ‘Red Wolf’s sharp features soften. _That’s right, Lady Sansa. I am not the monster you so desperately want to make me out to be._ “I wanted to talk with you about my plans once this storm passes. I mean to bring it up at the next war council meeting but thought we should discuss the plans first in private.”

The woman’s brows shot up before she could reschool her features into a blank mask, and Daenerys barely managed to contain her victorious grin. Jon had told her how his sister had disagreed with him in front of the lords on several occasions before he left for Dragonstone, too. He managed to bring her to heel by discussing his ideas with her first. Even if she still disagreed, she would be sated enough to agree with him in front of others for the sake of a united front.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lady Stark said. She folded her hands delicately in her lap. Her smile was small, but it was still a victory. “But I must confess, I’ll likely not have much to add. I don’t know battle, and my men have now had enough time to rest.”

Daenerys’s brow twitched at her phrasing of _her_ men. “That’s good to hear, but I would still like to discuss other things with you. We don’t know when this storm is ending, but we must be ready to leave within the day that it does. We must pack whatever we can to help things along.”

“I will help wherever I can,” Lady Stark said.

“Good. Thank you,” Daenerys said. She turned in her chair until she clasped both of their hands together. People always trusted those who looked them in the eye, and she needed to convince the woman that what she was about to say was what was best. “I’d also like to talk about the future of your kingdom after I’ve won back my throne. Out of all of the kingdoms already pledged to me, I know that you’ve been at war longer than most. You will need to focus on rebuilding. I was talking to Tyrion about him possibly coming back with you after my wedding to Jon to assist you.”

“I appreciate your offer, Your Grace, but that won’t be necessary.” Lady Stark’s jaw clenched, the edge usually reserved for Daenerys herself hardened the woman’s voice. What had her Hand done? He was the only of her advisors to have any sway over the woman, besides maybe Missandei. It was one of his only uses as of late. But it appeared he had done something to anger the woman. “We have already drafted the plans. My only concern moving forward is the shortage of food.”

Daenerys noticed Missandei tense, and she shot her a questioning glance. Her friend shook her head discreetly before turning to the lady in between them. “Do you plan to come to King’s Landing to watch the coronation and their wedding, Lady Sansa?”

“Of course she does. It will no longer be the snake pit it was when she was a child,” Daenerys said, again shooting her friend a questioning look when the woman tensed. She would ask her what was wrong later. Now she had to focus on the lady walking the line between ally and enemy. “I’m sure you’ve discussed my plans for the North with my advisors, but I think it bears repeating. I would like to name you lady of this castle, but you know that I cannot do that until you bend the knee.”

“I know that,” Lady Stark said. She looked ill, but then she swallowed and continued, “I will pray for victory in the King’s Landing, and then I will await your summons to kneel. I’m not happy to return, but it will be good for the court to see that the war is well and truly over. And you’re right. All of my enemies there will be dead.”

Daenerys smiled. As much as she wanted to make the woman bow here, where she thought herself queen, she had to choose her battles carefully until the Throne was hers. Even though she dreamed of burning the woman alive for her insolence, she knew it would make her life easier if she was left in charge of the North. It was a large kingdom, and the woman herself as well as her late aunt had already proven twice that the North would rise to rebellion in the name of the Starks. As long as the woman bent, it didn’t matter where in the end. And hearing the woman agreeing to it had left her in a good mood, so she could be generous. She had expected a bigger fight.

“I know this is a delicate subject for you, Lady Stark, but when you are named lady, your people will expect heirs,” Daenerys said. She studied her face for signs of fight or her pushing for too much at once, but she only found resignation.

“I know, Your Grace,” Lady Stark said.

“I was thinking of you marrying Tormund, the Wilding. You seem to get along with him, and it would do well for the North and the Wildlings to keep good relations. I know Northmen and Wildlings haven’t been friends since before the Wall was built, and this would solidify the fragile peace your brother has won with them.”

Sansa’s nostrils flared as her face flushed, but then she surprised Daenerys when she settled back into her chair and thought through her words.

“I agree we need to find a way to stabilize our alliance, but I’m not sure if he’s the best choice,” she said finally. At her queen’s furious expression, she added, “It is only that he has five children already, Your Grace.”

“With no claim to the Stark line, they pose no threat to your children,” Daenerys said. Kinvara had suggested they propose a southern lord that they could control better, but Tyrion had said that there was no chance of that. The North would never accept it, not after everything that had happened. They were still squabbling about who the best match for the woman would be. It was a waste of time. Something she had precious little of now that she would fly south soon. Her children did not restrict her to the Red Keep as it had the usurper, and she could always return whenever she wanted. But she had desperately wanted to avoid the need for that, and she needed to be able to study the woman when she made the important decisions like who she would marry.

“Forgive me for being hesitant, but I haven’t even been back home – not _really –_ for a year yet,” Sansa said, her voice lower than before. She glanced at Missandei uncomfortably before pulling back her hands. Her face slipped into the blank mask she wore so often, and her back was tall against her chair. “And the reason is because of greedy people taking advantage of the question of who was really next in line. Or people not caring at all. I want there to be no question when my babe is born that he or she is the heir.”

Daenerys nodded, trying to think how best to respond when all she could really think about was the possibility of her and Jon’s second child taking Winterfell. By that time, he would’ve been away with her in King’s Landing for over a decade. She was confident she would have his full loyalty _far_ before then, and the child would have Stark blood. Everyone would be happy.

“What are your plans to keep peace with the Free Folk?” Missandei asked. “When Varys told me that the Northerners and Free Folk had hated each other since the Wall was built, I didn’t quite believe him.”

“It’s strange what fighting a war or two together can do,” Sansa said before her gaze flickered to Daenerys. “But since they are a people north of Westeros...”

Daenerys’s smile tightened at her words, feeling herself walking into a trap. “Lady Sansa?”

Lady Stark swallowed, before smiling uneasily. “I only meant that my plans will have to be based around your plans, Your Grace. Trading and such between the kingdoms is one matter, but only a king or queen can decide how to handle those kingdoms and cities outside of Westeros.”

“Oh.” Daenerys looked at the woman, still not convinced. “The Wall serves no purpose now that the dead have been destroyed. Surely we can tear it down, and bring our nations closer together.”

“It has a magic, Your Grace,” Lady Sansa said. She looked between the two women, fidgeting yet again in her seat, and Daenerys realized she liked when it was _she_ that was outnumbered in a room. No matter how hard Sansa tried, Missandei would be _hers_. And that’s all Winterfell was. The one place in the Seven Kingdoms where people wouldn’t see her for who she really was. 

She might not’ve been the princess that was promised, but that didn’t make her less than what she already was. 

Breaker of Chains. Mother of Dragons. Queen of the Andals and the First Men. Savior of the Known World.

When Daenerys only raised an eyebrow expectantly, Sansa finally continued, “The Wall has a magic that stopped the Night King from being able to cross it.”

Daenerys saw red. She could feel that Drogon was on his way back to her. He felt his mother’s anger and was eager to defend her. The woman’s trap sat before her, and she thought her queen too stupid to see it. She had wanted to burn down the wall as a sign of good faith, but it would only remind the people that it was because of _her_ dragon that the army of the dead was able to attack them. It was better not to remind them of that. But that Sansa was trying to suggest–

There was a knock at the door, and she nearly shouted at them for disturbing them before she remembered herself. “Your Grace, it’s urgent,” Tyrion’s voice came.

“Come in,” Daenerys said. She was eager for the chance to see Tyrion and Lady Sansa interact. But when her Hand stepped in with Varys and Ser Barristan behind him, she was reminded of when they’d told her that they had lost her two allies at once. None were able to hold her eye. “What is it?”

Tyrion stepped forward, his face pinched with sympathy. His curls were beginning to stick to his forehead with sweat, and she wondered in what way he had disappointed her again. “We just received a raven from the princess. Ser Jorah… Ser Jorah was captured in an ambush. They’re taking him to the Twins.”

Everyone blurred red around her again, and she didn’t even realize that she had left the room until Missandei pulled her to a stop just outside the Keep. “Daenerys, please. You are hurting. You shouldn’t leave like this.”

“You can’t stop me,” Daenerys said before shaking her off. She could feel Drogon getting closer, but he was still at least half an hour away. Realizing that a small crowd of people were following her, she huffed and found the closest battlement. As she reached the steps, she shouted orders over her shoulders for two soldiers to stop anyone from following her up.

She stared at the sky, willing Drogon to fly faster. Jorah, the lovable fool! He had been eager to show her that he was valuable to her, despite her protests that he could do that _from her side_. She should’ve known better. She had already sent him away far too many times. She could never love him the way he did her, but she always missed him so much when he was gone. Like a piece of her was missing. He had always come back to her, and she would not let Cersei Lannister take him from her.

“Dany.”

She hadn’t heard him walk up the stairs, but Jon was suddenly right beside her. His expression was torn between sympathy and fear. Her fingers itched with unused adrenaline, but he still reached out to gently grab her hand.

“Let me come with you.”

Daenerys had never loved him more. He understood that she had to go. Even with her hesitations about his love for her and for his sister – only made worse when discovering they were technically cousins, no matter how they were raised – she knew that one day their love for each other would grow into something unbeatable. She and Jon were inevitable. They were the song of fire and ice.

“Thank you, Jon Snow.” Daenerys reached forward and grabbed his hand. She wanted to kiss him but could feel dozens of eyes on them down below. It didn’t matter. They would be sleeping in a different castle that night. One not filled with Northmen. “We should go out to the field before my children decide to land on the rooves.”

“Aye,” Jon said, offering her his arm before they walked down together. She studied him outside the corner of her eye. He was only looking at her as they walked out of the castle, and she felt her shoulders relax slightly. He was the Rhaenys to her Aegon, despite his true name. According to his brother, at least. Viserys had already failed her. She would not lose her Rhaenys. She would not let anyone take him from her. For once, no one interrupted them. It wasn’t until they had left his home and were walking through tents, the air thick with smoke from fires, that Jon continued, “They will likely have already reached the Twins by the time we arrive. Princess Elia will be there, too. We’ll do everything we can to save him, Dany. I promise.”

“Thank you, Jon,” Daenerys said, pulling him a little closer. She reminded herself again that Jorah always came back to her. This was no different. The Red God had cured a disease so that he could come back to her. Cersei Lannister was not worse than anyone or anything she’d faced before. Not for the first time, she regretted that she had not waited in naming Tyrion her hand. She might’ve been on the Iron Throne by now, if she had named Jorah and kept him by her side. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I met Jorah?”

Daenerys grinned up at him, enjoying the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked at her. The way he couldn’t stop touching her, as his other hand rested atop hers on his arm.

“No, you didn’t,” Jon said, his brows drawn up in sympathy for her. She usually hated seeing it in people, but his was from a fierce protectiveness. He had stepped down from a crown for her. He hadn’t even done that for Sansa.

“He was hired by Varys to be a spy for the usurper Robert Baratheon in exchange for being welcomed back to Westeros,” Daenerys said. She felt a pull from her children, and her grin widened. They had been closer than she’d thought. “But then he realized that I am not like other people. That I was born for greatness. I banished him, but he came back to me. He always comes back to me.”

“Aye, he is a strong man. The princess will likely reach the castle at the same time we do, but Lady Melisandre and a few scouts are riding ahead so that we know what we’re flying into,” Jon said. While she like to look to flames for her answers, he always stared at maps as though willing the correct choice to appear before him. But he couldn’t do that now, so he looked around them at all of the Dothraki and few Unsullied. The people were loud with anger, likely hearing what their khaleesi was going to fix, and she lamented that they would be too slow to bring with her.

“Lady Melisandre?” Daenerys pressed, making Jon’s mouth press into a line. The priestess was a sour topic between the two still. He hadn’t said anything about it, accepting that she needed a woman with such strong magic. Being able to see the future. Bringing someone back from the dead.

“Aye, she saw a vision in the flames, and Princess Elia sent her and dozens of her best to try to save them. They were too late, but they’re likely looking for a way inside the castle as we speak,” Jon said. His voice was low with irritation, but she couldn’t be happier. The red priestess was once again proving to be too useful to give up. The only question left was how best to remove Kinvara and name Melisandre as the High Priestess.

But then two blots in the sky distracted her. They were perhaps too small to notice to the untrained eye, but she had been watching the skies much longer than anyone. Daenerys pressed her hands to her stomach as she soaked in the familiar warmth at seeing her children. Even from here, she knew that it was Drogon on the left. 

Jon followed her line of vision, and he had the opposite reaction. His shoulders tensed, and he looked back to her. “It’s been weeks since I’ve seen them. Where have they been?”

Daenerys briefly wondered if Sansa knew. The North didn’t have a counsel, even when Jon was briefly king. Which meant no Master of Whisperers. It was one of the reasons Varys had become more valuable recently. The man really did seem to know everything. She had recently pushed him for more, and he’d proven a fountain of knowledge. So far, no birds had come whispering about a Targaryen. She had decided to tell the man Jon’s secret, which had clearly shocked him, both the information and that she had given it freely. It had been an impulse decision, but she needed to test his loyalty.

“Drogon does not like the North. He flew far south,” Daenerys said. She licked her lips before trailing her finger down his arm to his hand. “Rhaegael was closer.”

Jon nodded, eyes on their hands before looking back up to her, “Stay close.”

Daenerys grinned, despite being furious that she knew she couldn’t kiss him in front of so many. Unfortunately, the Dothraki ways were not accepted in Westeros. She would work towards changing that, but right now, she had to save Jorah.

She was Daenerys Stormborn. She was not like other people. She got what she wanted. Cersei Lannister didn’t understand who she was dealing with. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the loss of Missandei slips her just that much more into madness... now Westeros isn't enough. She wants to also rule all of Essos and maybe the Free Folk too?! As always, would love to hear your thoughts :) and any guesses what's going to go down at the Twins?!


	42. Bran/Three-Eyed Raven

The Three-Eyed Raven watched as lords, ladies, and servants alike bowed to them and Bran Stark’s sister, lower now that they did not have to hide their love for the Lady of Winterfell from Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa Stark had insisted on being the one to push them around Winterfell since Jon had left with the Mad Queen, often asking when they’d like her to pick them up again before leaving. They knew that she was missing both Jon and Arya Stark, and so needed her youngest surviving brother. Her mind worked well even in the darkest of times, but they knew that even the strongest of minds needed some sign of hope, no matter how small. It was why they let Bran Stark out just a tiny glimmer more; she needed to stay strong until the rest of the Starks returned. 

Perhaps that was also why Bran Stark’s heart squeezed a little tighter when thinking of them. He missed his siblings, too, but this was for the best. They might only have two games left to win, but there were still many plays to execute. Jon would be able to manipulate his aunt far better with Sansa Stark far away. He was too much like Eddard Stark. Someone who only lied for family was not nearly as good at it as the rest of the players. That goodness had led to Bran Stark’s father’s death. They couldn’t let the same happen to Jon, and his love for Sansa Stark was becoming more obvious by the day. It would’ve costed them everything.

They had been weaker since they had beaten the Night King, but they had been so pleased with their secret weapon. The Night King had been so caught up in one of the gods’ weapons, their precious prince that was promised, that he had failed to notice their hidden one. The King of Night, whose only goal was to make everyone live in darkness for the rest of time, had not seen No One hiding in his own shadow. She had made all the difference, their final play. The game had lasted thousands of years, so long that they were still numb to their victory.

The Lannisters did not need magic to be deadly. Tywin Lannister had brought peace to the living in his ruthlessness, but he had failed in teaching his children. His only daughter was his legacy now, and she was not afraid to kill her enemies until only those who feared her remained.

The Targaryens were a more recent problem, but just as lethal in their own right. The magic of the dragons kept their gaze sharp despite the half-burnt weirwood.

At least the Three-Eyed Raven had been right in their observation that one of the beliefs of the Red Priestesses were actually true. There was power in king’s blood. Bran Stark sharing blood with Jon made the dragon’s magic increase their own.

The decision to become a Stark had been easy. They had watched the boy in Winterfell for only a few years more before deciding he was the best choice. Bran Stark proved to be as clever as they had hoped, providing them an excellent new lens. He had always loved the scary stories. He never looked away. He loved to climb to watch the life of the castle from a different view.

Sansa Stark pushed them through the godswood until they were close enough to touch the weirwood. They immediately reached up and touched the blackened bark, the old gods’ magic more muted and broken beneath their fingers. The magic was the only reason the tree was alive at all, but they still mourned before brushing their hand over to where the bark was still an unblemished white. Their gaze was clearer here, but still not what it had once been.

“I know we needed to be sure that her dragonfire couldn’t kill him, but seeing the tree like this… I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.” They could hear the heartbreak in her voice, and Bran Stark’s throat tightened as he remembered his father sitting on the roots while cleaning Ice, the magic intertwined in the blade keeping it as sharp as the day it was forged. 

They didn’t tell her the dragonfire would never have worked. The Red God had used his strongest magic to make sure they would have a hero; the prophecy had always been absolute. Only Jon could’ve killed the Night King, but Daenerys Targaryen had proven to be a thorn in their side for far longer than the North had ever known her. They had already made the mistake of underestimating a beautiful woman with powerful magic once with the Red God, giving him too much power. They never made the same mistake twice. They cursed that they had not made it to Winterfell in time to send Sansa Stark to Dragonstone instead of Jon, their worry increasing tenfold when he had slept with the dragon queen. When he had paused to look at her, they could not tell if it was with love or desperation. The two often looked so similar.

Bran Stark was looking forward to killing the dragon queen. They had predicted him to be the prince that was promised since the three dragons were children. Viserys Targaryen’s coin had flipped the moment he had decided the Iron Throne was his birthright as a young child, and his much more problematic sister’s had flipped for the same decision later. If only the Spider had chosen someone else as his spy, and the dragon queen had been killed in Essos like they’d hoped (their magic was too weak in the south to influence anything), Bran Stark would have less reason to personally want the woman dead. But since their goals once more aligned, he relished in it. 

Bran Stark was also happy the only time they had ever seen Jon lose control (against Ramsay Snow), one look at Sansa Stark had stilled him. Even against Littlefinger in the crypts, the thought of her had both lit and smothered the fire within him.

“She will pay for what she’s done, Sansa,” they said. She seemed surprised by the leaked venom in their voice before studying her brother’s face. But then her face darkened. “You are angry with me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that Jorah was going to be taken? I know why you kept us in the dark about the Night King, but you know I’m much better suited to help you with Cersei and Daenerys.”

Yes, Sansa Stark had gone through many horrors before they were in the position to do anything about it. When she had first traveled to King’s Landing, their magic had been too muted with the dragons and dead sleeping to do anything but watch (and bring Bran Stark to himself through his dreams). And when she had finally returned to the North, their priority had been on training Bran Stark. In the end, even he saw the advantages his sister’s journey had given them. She had grown up dealing with dangerous jealous women now thrice over. Cersei Lannister, Lysa Tully, and now Daenerys Targaryen. His sister had used her time in her golden cages to watch and learn, and she was now much more valuable to them than the spoiled girl that once lived in Winterfell. And she had brought back Jon in a way the Red Priestess’s magic could not. Where the red woman had given him life, Sansa Stark had given him the will to keep it, saving them all.

“We’re all better liars here,” they said, the words so close to her dead teacher’s that she shuddered. “He will be better at convincing her that he’s in love with her without you there to distract him.”

“I don’t distract him. I help him. We’re Starks, Bran. You even told me there was power in father’s words. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. But now Arya and Jon are gone. They’re on their own out there, down south where your magic nor my influence can touch. I know it’s for the best. I know why I sent Arya – and I’m sure I’ll understand why you sent Jon away if you told me – but Bran, you could’ve given us time to say a proper goodbye.”

Instead, all they had was a brief moment and a kiss so passionate that made what was left of Bran Stark blush. The sight had made him think of Meera Reed before his heart had ached, and they had to refocus. 

But they had watched Jon carefully over the last few weeks. He was keeping Daenerys Targaryen at bay by staying away from the woman he truely loved. It was the only time his lying really excelled, any mistakes made in more intimate moments met only to the misinterpretation of the Mad Queen. The rest of the people with any power over the game had already seen where Jon’s heart really lied, and they could not afford for her to catch onto the truth as well.

And although gaining skill in the recent months, Jon was not an experienced liar. And he needed to focus on the biggest lie of all. For now, Tyrion Lannister and Elia Dayne believed that he would fall in love with the dragon queen with time. Although the Raven was confident that they had already won both of those games, both players too short-sighted to be any real threat, it was safest to keep them thinking so for the time being. They had thought of telling Sansa Stark and not Jon what was to pass with Jorah Mormont, but they couldn’t rely that she’d be able to keep her sadness of his imminent departure from him. Jon had always been better at reading her than anyone before him, so frequently had he practiced. Both in their youth and since their reunion. 

“Your love was too great a risk, and Jon needs to focus on keeping the dragon queen happy. It will be worth what it costs,” they said. She nodded in resigned understanding. They waited for her to tell them again that they could’ve told just her but smiled softly when she didn’t. One of Sansa’s best traits was that she had long ago analyzed all of her faults. He’d seen it in the way she bounced ideas off of him for how to deal with the Mad Queen. She knew that she couldn’t trust herself to be impartial when it came to matters of her and Jon. She had seen what love could do to someone, so with the promise that if they succeeded no more Starks would die, she had decided to trust in them. 

It was why they weren’t guilty about how they were about to manipulate her. For they now had an eavesdropper, the Unsullied Commander having silently followed them into the godswood.

“When would you like to be picked up?” She took a step back, her vision staying on him. They knew that despite her understanding, it still hurt that they had refused to say anything more about their decision to not tell her about the exiled knight. It would hurt her more later when she found out what they were about to do, but they couldn’t risk Missandei Dāervez thinking that she was just a pawn to the Lady of Winterfell.

“Not until supper. I have much to see.” Although true, they only spoke so the soldier would not think that they weren’t watching him now. “You still have a busy day planned ahead of you.”

“I do. I’m happy with our change in strategy with the dragon queen leaving the North, but I’ll be happier when the rest of them are gone, too,” she said, taking the step back towards him. “I realize that I forgot to say it in my anger, but thank you for telling me the truth about what Tyrion did to Shae.”

They had underestimated the lion queen. When they’d watched her blow up the Sept of Baelor, they’d thought her poisoned with the same madness that took often took over the people for the Iron Throne. They thought she no longer played the game, only focused on annihilation. They had been wrong.

Cersei Lannister had laid several plans of her own while they had been distracted with the Night King. They had seen the way that she had sent the caches of wildfire to the outskirts of the city, inviting people into the castle for protection, offering them what food was left from the Reach, with the whispered promise that the foreign savage would burn them all. The woman was determined to leave the Lannisters the one thing her father had asked of her. Legacy. If she was to die, it would be in her castle. She would go into history as the martyr queen who had died with her people, refusing to bend to the foreign tyrant.

They had watched her command the Master of Whisperers to spread the true story of Lady Olenna killing their ‘once beloved king’. Stories were spun of how the queen wished to make up for her crimes against the Lady of Winterfell, a woman she was mournful to have wrongly accused. Tyrion Lannister, the long-hated Imp, had been a traitor for far longer than anyone had suspected, manipulating the good and honorable Eddard Stark into thinking King Joffrey ‘Baratheon’ a bastard so that civil war would have crippled the kingdoms for his foreign queen to take over. The only person standing in the way of peace in the land was Daenerys Targaryen.

They had missed the quiet orders to one of the servants of the sellswords who had kidnapped Jorah Mormont. They had missed her give him the golden chain and a note, with promises of riches if he was able to sneak it into Lady Stark’s chambers undetected. They could not afford to make such foolish mistakes.

They had taken a risk when they’d told her the truth, but it had been the right one. She had already seen the truth through Arya, Tyrion Lannister not able to control his emotions in time. Shae had been a poor, unspectacular woman trapped in a rich man’s game. After the little lion lost her loyalty when he chose the game over her, she had done what she’d needed to in order to survive.

The Lady of Winterfell had asked them the potential consequences of killing Tyrion Lannister. They had said two names. Jaime Lannister and Elia Dayne. When she’d opened her mouth intent on arguing, they’d told her that she would lose at least one. Since each came with their own armies, she’d asked what she could do to make him suffer and not lose either. The viciousness she protected or avenged those loyal to her had eased their worry that the old gods magic would be protected. She was loyal to Bran Stark, so she was loyal to the Three-Eyed Raven. They had seen her harvesting the weirwood before they could even make the suggestion, and she had asked for suggestions on where to grow them the same day.

Now, they would show Torgo Nudho that Sansa Stark was a queen that he could trust.

“Are you off to the win the Unsullied or Dorne?” they asked, their real question clear: Missandei Dāervez or Tyrion Lannister?

“I need Missandei with me to properly converse with the Dothraki. A thousand have already fallen ill to the cold, and the masses want to kill them before they can infect the rest. I would feel like a butcher, but their culture thrives on the idea of physical strength. I hardly think I could stop them, and who am I to stop someone from wanting a dignified death?”

They smiled, thinking once more of Lady Olenna Tyrell. Her death had been glorious. If only the woman had ever travelled farther north than King’s Landing, they could’ve pointed her north instead of east in her revenge. The woman had given them one last victory against Cersei Lannister, much the same way her granddaughter had by taking Tommen Waters with her to the grave, and they mourned the lost potential.

Bran Stark had been simmering for revenge against Cersei Lannister since he’d watched Jaime Lannister push him from the Broken Tower for her. The offender himself had since paid for his mistakes when he lost his sword hand, and pledging to Sansa Stark had turned him into a valuable piece on their gameboard. They had not expected him to come north, his twin having proven to be a master manipulator of him their entire lives. Only by the grace of the gods had Jaime Lannister been brought so easily to their side by Brienne Tarth.

“Tread carefully. Or the key to the Unsullied will slip from your fingers.”

Sansa Stark swallowed, her Tully blue eyes looking back and forth between their own. They had seen how often she had been called the key to the North; they knew the phrasing would bother her. “She is more than that, and you know it,” she said sharply, her eyes narrowed. “Please, Bran. We don’t have enough influence in the south to keep her safe. I know you said the odds were in her favor, but there has to be more we can do.”

Daenerys Targaryen had become uncontrollable when Jon had arrived in Dragonstone. It was the last roll of die to add to the complications of their starting board. With each roll, more and more would be sacrificed for the sake of the living.

Bran Stark had saved his sister the burden of what may happen at the Twins, but he could not save her from everything. Missandei Dāervez was another goal that they agreed needed to survive, but she was in a vulnerable position as the queen’s longest friend.

“The Long Night did not die with its king,” the Raven said. Their magic lied in the rocks, streams, birds, and beasts. And with Stark blood in their veins, the forests and the snows. They might be weaker, but their influence had spread with winter’s hold. “The winds of winter have reached as far as Harrenhal.” 

And so, the fire will always follow.

“The snows are too thick for her to travel?” Sansa Stark asked, but her face suggested she still wasn’t happy. “The longer she stays here, the more in danger she’ll be from the dragon queen. She’ll think I’ve poisoned her against her.”

“Haven’t you?” they asked.

Sansa bristled, her cheeks flushed as she took another step closer. “You know it better than me. In this game, you don’t have to lie to destroy someone’s reputation. Only reveal the truth because every single one of us has skeletons to hide. And as much as I want Missandei to see the truth of what her queen has become, I’m terrified that Daenerys will do to her what she did to the Tarlys. Please, Bran. She might not be a wolf, but she’s in my pack. We have to protect her. We can give her enough supplies to survive the journey and someone who knows how to travel in the snow. And what if I sent Brienne to stay by her side?”

They thought of wine being smashed into a floor and promises of vengeance. Brienne of Tarth had given them Jaime Lannister. But she was also the biggest threat against the prophecy coming true. Sansa Stark saw the denial in his emotionless eyes.

“What’s done is done,” they said when she opened her mouth to argue, goading her into revealing her claws. “She is the safest risk.”

“We are in the _North_, Bran. People are not pawns here. We do what we do because we want to keep our family and our kingdom safe. Happy even, if we can afford to be greedy,” Sansa Stark said firmly. They thought to how the Starks had been a different sort of kings, and now queens, right from the beginning. How they had forged their kingdom not for glory or gold, but to survive. “And I know you might be the Three-Eyed Raven now, but you’re still my brother. I see you, Bran. So, please, I’m asking you as my brother. Please, help me keep her safe.”

They thought to when Bran Stark was a small boy. His mother had always been fierce in her love, but she had many duties as Lady of Winterfell and too many children to care for. His oldest sister often took over for her motherly duties, always looking out for him and listening happily to his stories of everything he’d found in the castle that day and telling him new ones of knights and princesses. She was his favorite.

They saw No One slipping through a hallway in the Twins. The Hound and Jaime Lannister were also in the castle, sneaking out as many of the women and children as they could without alerting the enemy’s soldiers. The lion queen had sent the Golden Company along with a garrison of Lannister men, so they were outnumbered until the Dornish army arrived. They had not been able to do as much as they’d hoped when they’d left, but the number of innocent lives to be lost was falling steadily.

Two dozen soldiers stood in between No One, and Jorah Mormont and Ilyn Payne. The plan had been for her to steal the latter’s face and then help free the former, but they were running out of time. Dragons flew quickly.

“She will be safest in Riverrun with Dorne, once it’s won,” they said.

She beamed at him, brows raised in surprise that they gave her an answer. “Thank you,” she said quietly, but then she frowned. “But how will we convince Daenerys to leave her there? The castle’s lord is our cousin. She will be suspicious of him from the start.”

They watched Torgo Nudho step away, waiting patiently until he was far enough away to not hear their conversation. The commander’s jaw was set, clearly mulling over everything he’d heard. They would have to wait to hear those thoughts until he spoke them aloud to Missandei Dāervez.

“I will do everything that I can,” they said. If Missandei Dāervez was everything they’d hoped, not only would the threat of the Unsullied leave Westeros, but freedom would once more be won throughout Essos. This time, more permanently, ruled by a woman who was learning much from her time in the North. Such a genuine connection between her and the future Queen in the North was promising.

“Thank you,” Sansa Stark said, her smile small but filled with gratitude. “I’ll leave you to your third eye, then.”

After they watched her walk away in search of her newest friend, their eyes turned south to the Twins, the horrors already starting. Fire and Blood. The Targaryens had chosen their words well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo I know that Bran's train of thought is kinda all over the place and doesn't make much sense in the flow, but that's kind of how I would imagine his brain working. Half watching what's around him, and half watching everything else.
> 
> Also holy moly I just realized this is over 100K words?! How the heck did that happen...


	43. Arya

The Twins had once haunted Arya Stark’s nightmares, visions of her brother’s body with Grey Wind’s head sewn on chasing her until they trampled her to death. Visions of her mother with her throat cut to the bone screaming at her that she would always be a disappointment. That she had betrayed them by fleeing east. The dreams had only finally stopped when she had finally crossed Walder Frey off of her list, along with all of his disgusting sons and grandsons and bastards who had cheered to the murder of an innocent family they had invited into their home. 

Returning to the castle now, she had to be No One once more. Only No One could offer Ilyn Payne’s face to the Many-Faced God. She couldn’t afford to show anyone Arya Stark of Winterfell a second time in these halls, when she had made sure that the Frey women had seen her face.

It was Sansa that had insisted that her training would be more helpful if her time spent learning at the House of Black and White faded into legend, and Arya was once more reminded how much her sister had learned during their time apart. Arya had been sharpened into a weapon, and she would happily let her sister wield her as long as she fought to protect their family. 

Ignorance of magic in the south gave them the advantage of being underestimated. So, despite how much she wanted Ilyn Payne to know it was her that was killing him, she couldn’t afford to unless she managed to get to him alone. And despite her talent for shadows, Ilyne Payne was surrounded by too many guards. She had found entrances to more than one secret passageway, but she hadn’t been able to find any that led to the part of the castle where he and his prisoner stayed. And she couldn’t afford to kill too many people and alert anyone of her presence, either.

When a raven with white eyes had landed on her arm all those moons ago when she had travelled alone into the forest to warn Nymeria to not travel so close to the Dornish army, the bird had looked at her with too much intelligence. Bran had told them all that he was a warg after the Battle for Winterfell, but it was still unsettling to see. When the bird raised its leg with a scroll attached, she’d taken it all the while never looking away its strange eyes. The raven had jumped from her shoulder to a nearby branch until she finished reading the short message.

_The Exiled Knight will be taken. Your list will grow shorter._

Daenerys, Cersei, the Mountain, and Ilyne Payne were the last survivors on her list. Varys had told them that Cersei never went everywhere without the Mountain, so she had known right away that her brother had meant Ilyne Payne. This had only been proven later when she found out the executioner was at the Twins ready to do to Jorah what he had done to her father.

As Daenerys had not given up the faith of the Fire God even after Jon had proven to be the prince that was promised, it only made sense to earn the mad woman’s trust as Lady Melisandre. It was that thought that had led her to pose Bran’s message as a vision from the Red God. She would save the queen’s first worshipper to earn a spot to whisper in her ear, and she would cross off another name on her list. She remembered how the raven had twisted its head as it stared at her silently, but then its eyes had cleared to black. The raven had cawed loudly at her before flying away.

Now within the castle filled with so much death, Bella the Maid walked through the hallway. The Frey women thought she had come with the Lannister and Golden Company soldiers, and the soldiers barely remembered a plain woman’s face. She listened to the whispers of soldiers around her as she walked through the hallway, a load of laundry resting on her hip as her guise. None thought it strange that she was still dressed in her cloak, due to the cold air seeping into the castle from the winter that had completely settled over the Neck. Thus, her scandalous red dress remained unseen from their unobservant gaze.

The Golden Company had counted eight-hundred men when they had reached the castle. It had been just over one-thousand before they’d left Winterfell, but the snows had already claimed hundreds. Their blood was too thin for winter.

If only the lion queen had only sent Lannister men, this would’ve been easier. They had rallied to Jaime’s words easily, their memories of him on the battlefield by their sides winning their loyalties from his sister with one well-moving speech. They were ready to turn on the Golden Company as soon as he gave them the signal, several helping the innocents leave the castle undetected, although both Jaime and Sandor made sure the women and children knew they had the North to thank for their freedom. Between helping the innocent escape, and the trouble they had come across in the swamps when someone had recognized Jaime and an entire village raised arms to demand his death, they were far behind their carefully laid out plans.

Although she would not leave the castle until Ilyn Payne’s head rolled, she was no longer confident she’d be able to save Jorah Mormont. But she would be lying if she said she would mourn the ex-slaver’s death. The most feeling she could muster was potential disappointment that Cersei Lannister would enjoy taking the kill. 

The sound of a dragon screeching tore her from her thoughts. She cursed how quickly the beasts could travel before quickening her step up the stairs. She slipped easily into the shadows, changing into Rorrick the Soldier, swiftly throwing away her cloak, and throwing on the armor Bella had stashed in the room days ago. (He had to take off the top half of the red woman’s dress and roll up the skirt, but he knew it still stretched around his waist). Just in time, Rorrick stepped out of the room and fell into line behind soldiers running towards the front barrack.

The sun was setting to the west, the red reflecting off the Dornish army’s bronze armor. They stood waiting in formation as Drogon flew in a circle around the castle until Rhaegal joined him. Both flew behind the southern army, landing where the trees helped shield them. It seemed all of the Golden Company’s men’s eyes could only stay glued to the beasts.

Ilyn Payne stepped into his vision, followed by two Golden Company soldiers each holding an arm of the Exiled Knight as they dragged him forward. Berrick inched closer, waiting for the right moment to strike. Jon was walking next to an approaching Daenerys, and several archers’ bows raised as they readied to shoot if battle struck.

“Do we have a shot?” Captain-Major Remus Ryker asked from in front of her. A tall Black man, he kept his men honest with the many young women of the castle but was renowned for being brutal on the battlefield. He was a master of tactics. When Arya had suggested they bribe him to their side, Jaime had quickly dismissed it. The man lived by his company’s words, “Our word is as good as gold.” 

“I’m confident they can hit the big one, at least,” a brigadier-general replied after a moment. So, they weren’t aiming and Daenerys and Jon, but instead their dragons.

“Excellent. Await my signal,” Captain-Major Ryker said.

Daenerys and Jon reached the front of the Dornish army, Elia and an Unsullied officer closely behind them. Soldiers surrounded them in a right square, shields ready to defend their princess and queen. They stepped up to the edge of the moat, just out of Berrick’s view from the back of the barrack.

“Daenerys Targaryen. Jon Snow. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is so glad you’ve agreed to come to negotiate,” Captain-Major Ryker greeted, much louder.

“Queen Daenerys demands the return of Jorah Mormont,” Jon shouted back, his low voice carrying clearly. “There doesn’t have to be battle. There’s no reason to waste lives today. Return Jorah Mormont, and the queen will spare your lives. Go back east, and all will be forgiven.”

“Queen Cersei demands the unconditional surrender of Daenerys Targaryen. If she refuses, Jorah Mormont will die here and now,” Captain-Major Ryker said, completely ignoring the Northerner’s words.

“Captain-Major, I’ve heard of your great victories on the battlefield. You know when a battle is lost. Do not let your people die for sake of your pride.”

“I don’t want to see this castle burn, but I am only a soldier in an army bought and paid for. You may have noticed the dozens of Scorpions. All it takes is one lucky shot. Your dragons are vulnerable and your armies depleted. Sometimes you have to lose battles to win wars, and we are the Golden Company. You will find bitter steel beneath our gold.”

“Cersei’s reign is over. A dead man cannot pay. Please, lay down your swords and go home.”

“The Golden Company has never broken a contract. We won’t start today,” the captain-major said firmly.

“We will not stand down. You know we won’t stand down. If you won’t flee east, then you can at least make your demands reasonable,” Jon called back. Berrick watched his commanding officers make silent communication with each other. “Surely there is something else Cersei wants.”

“You will return Tyrion Lannister and Jaime Lannister, Hand of the Mad Queen and the One-Handed Knight, so that they may face Westerosi justice. And the Northern army must stay in Winterfell.”

The only response was silence, Jon and Daenerys likely talking it over, or arguing. Neither brother was in the good graces of the dragon queen anymore, so it was possible the woman was seriously considering their offer, at least partially. While Sansa would fight against giving up Ser Jaime, the rest sounded like a deal too good to be true. It was an ironic request with one of the barter chips already within the castle. She could only hope Sandor and the Lannister soldiers could stop Jaime from doing anything stupid.

“Captain-Major Ryker, it is said that you are an honorable man. That you do not let your men rape and pillage what lands they conquer for coin, but that you are ruthless to your enemies,” Daenerys’s voice rang out, the barely contained rage shaking her voice. “We are not so different, you and I. I would ask you to look behind me. Do you see the two dragons? Fire and Blood. Those are my family’s words. I was born to take back my family’s thrones. You have a choice now. Stand where you are serving a usurper and die here today, or lay down your swords and return to your families. I will win my throne either way. Cersei Lannister can’t afford you. She will not pay this debt. I know you come from the gambling kind, so either join the winning side now or flee from the board. I do not want to kill you, but I will.”

“We don’t have a deal, then?” Captain-Major Ryker asked. He sounded unaffected by her proclamation, but the surrounding soldiers shifted to ready for battle.

“I do not negotiate with masters,” the woman spat. “Release Jorah Mormont to me, or I will burn you where you stand.”

“Are you truly a mad queen, then? To burn a castle filled with innocent women and children inside the castle walls? It has gotten so cold, and we’d opened our doors to those that froze and starved, you see. And protection against you, of course.”

“Your master hides behind the innocent but wishes to call me the villain. Just another trick by Cersei,” Daenerys yelled back. The soldiers shifted again as they realized battle was truly inevitable.

Captain-Major Ryker stepped back, turning to look at Jorah. 

“If you have any last words, now is the time,” he said before nodding to Ilyn Payne, who immediately stepped up as the two Golden Company soldiers pushed the Exiled Knight to the ground of the raised platform.

Berrick edged closer to them before eying all of the people in front of him. He would not be able to save the dragon queen’s man in time without ensuring his own certain death. He would have to wait until the soldiers were too busy shooting their arrows at the Dornish, when the cowardly executioner took his leave from the battle.

Jorah was kneeling tall, likely looking at his queen, before a single word rang out in the silence. “Dracarys.”

Ilyn Payne didn’t wait before his axe swung down and chopped off the man’s head. 

Immediately, the captain-major shouted, “Nock!” Berrick could see the retreating shields hiding the queen and Jon Snow retreating back behind the Dornish army. “Loose!”

The familiar swoosh of arrows took over the silence, following by more shouts from below. And not just from the small ones from the men. Above her, the Scorpions unleashed their loads, the arrows as tall as Berrick flinging into the swamp. He heard the cry of both beasts, the men in front of him blocking his view of where they’d hit.

Ilyn Payne stepped towards the exit behind him. When he reached the stairs, Berrick slipped silently behind him. He waited until he was just two steps behind him until he pulled out his hidden knife and unceremoniously sliced his throat.

The executioner slumped backwards before uselessly trying to swing back his axe. Berrick pushed him backwards, the sound of the man who killed Eddard Stark slamming into the ground sending a chill of satisfaction through him. He kicked away the old man’s weapon, taking a quick look around to see they were alone.

Arya slipped back into her own face before pulling out her own sword, Needle. “The Many-Faced God must be happy with me, for giving me you. Do you know who I am?” she stepped forward. He just looked her at her quietly as he uselessly tried to hold the blood inside his neck. She had cut deep, until she had felt the bone, like they said Black Walder did to her mother. “I didn’t think so. They never do. You’re lucky that I don’t have much time. You’ve given Death so many faces, I doubt you remember me. But I’m glad the last thing you’ll see is my face smiling down at you. A girl is Arya Stark, and you killed my father.”

She pushed the blade of Needle into his neck slowly, savoring the dark red of his blood that poured out. He choked slowly, the light in his eyes flickering out slowly as he choked on it. Staring at his face contentedly for only a moment, before slipping her sword back in its holster.

The castle began to shake, the echoing screams of men following quickly. She slipped into the closest room before pulling off the armor and changing back into the face of Bella, nearly tripping as she adjusted the red woman’s dress and put back on her coat. The soldiers had more important things to worry about than some Frey women, but the shaking wasn’t stopping. Only when the walls started to melt around her did she understand why. She turned back around, hurrying back down the opposite way until she reached the other set of stairs. She ran down the next hallwayquickly, but the heat followed her down. A group of Frey women pushed passed her, nearly making her fall underneath their stampede. She followed them to the end of another set of stairs, stopping only when she saw the fire had already found the hall, the other side of the castle melted away. The sight froze her for only a moment before she turned to the nearest window and ran.

She crashed through the glass, seeing the blur of a dragon in the air before she crashed into the ground. The snow cushioned her fall, but she still heard the snap of bone before she rolled to a stop. She held her right arm to her chest, thanking the Many-Faced God it wasn’t her left when she moved and her leg protested. She pulled off her coat off and slipped back into the face of Lady Melisandre.

She had landed in the swamp to the right of the castle where the trees abutted the castle’s walls. What was still be seen of the marsh beneath the snow was brown. She tread carefully, knowing how dangerous falling into the swamp’s water could be in winter. The magic of the Red God was still in her body, but it was muted. She couldn’t risk it.

The battlefield was chaos in front of her. Black smoke clung to the air, making her sweat even from this distance. The castle was melting like a candlestick underneath the dragonfire. The Dornish army stood in their defensive positions, tall shields glaring in the sun as their chants grew louder. Their battering ram had just reached the castle’s gates, but oil was dropped on them. She watched in horror as the oil lit up in green flames, exploding against the soldiers. The Golden Company had _wildfire_.

Each dragon took a tower on either side of the river. She could see others as desperate as her people jumping out of windows as the castle collapsed on top of them. The ice was as deadly as the ground to those who jumped from too high a level. They were still luckier than the ones burning alive inside. The sight of the seat of House Frey burning should’ve filled her with satisfaction, but she had already avenged her family. The innocent women and children trapped in there did not deserve to die. The guilt at seeing how much they had struggled since she had killed their tormentors still ate at her. She had resolved to ask her sister to help them once the war was won, but the sight of Rhaegal in the sky smoldering the castle to nothing now burned against her eyes. Would they even want help from the North? Does it matter how many they saved when a Northerner sits on the back of a dragon who killed so many? She knew that Jon had to keep the queen’s trust, but to burn alive so many innocent people… she had more important things to focus on right now, primarily survive.

Turning her attention back forward and limping down the treeline until she was behind the army. The command tent was easy enough to spot. As she drew closer, she could hear Sandor yelling at someone and also hear Jaime Lannister’s pleas, even if she could not make out the words. Knowing that they were both safe, at least for now, gave her the confidence to become No One once more.

“Fear not. The Lord of Light has not abandoned His fallen star to the south,” she said, not knowing if she was comforting them against the wildfire or the dragonfire. Probably both, but they were just men. Just pawns in a much larger game, and so she would comfort them. 

“Thank you, milady,” the shorter of them said. 

Pains forgotten, Lady Melisandre of Assai walked up to the commanders, looking over everyone in the tent as if they had all the time in the world. The Dornish princess was wrapped from her neck to her hip, herbs and blood staining the wraps, and a pile of broken arrows at her feet. She was clearly distraught to have been dragged away from battle. Lady Sarella Ladybright, master poisoner, was by her side, her normally warm, brown skin pallid. Their relief at seeing her alive was as obvious as her guards outside, no doubt thinking the women dead after the dragonfire had begun. Jaime Lannister and Sandor were also standing there, both gazes now narrowed in suspicion at her. Neither man had ever warmed up the Red Woman, her magic terrifying both of them. The woman Arya Stark of Winterfell knew to be Lord Frey’s widow stood there begging for them to stop the dragons; however, she froze when she saw the Red Priestess like a mouse who’d just spotted a cat. 

But it was the sight of Jon Snow that made her hesitate. 

The Warden of the North was covered in snow, and he was holding his left arm awkwardly, as if it was hurt. Realizing she clutched hers closely in much the same way, she wondered if Rhaegal had thrown him from his back. Or he had jumped when he realized the dragon was not going to stop to his orders.

“My lady, it’s so good to see you alive,” Princess Elia said, glancing back at her friend who was already digging through a blood-stained apron at her waist. “Sarella will tend to your wounds. We were worried. The soldiers said they hadn’t seen you, but I’m glad to see your god is not done with you yet. I’m sure Sarella will find you something for the pain. Please, sit.”

“Did you get everyone out?” Lady Frey asked when she didn’t move.

“Not everyone. No one can protect everyone,” she said, eyeing Jon Snow, who shuddered at her words. “The night is dark and full of terrors, but the one true god did not leave us unprotected. You stand in the presence of the prince that was promised, the one who delivered the world from darkness and will lead us into Dawn. He is the song of fire ice.” 

“I hope that’s true,” Princess Elia said, looking at the flap of the tent as if she was debating going back out there. The fear reflected in her unnatural eyes was evident, the look of someone who realized that she’d put her faith in the wrong woman. To see such ruthlessness against the dead had been easy to watch, but Lady Melisandre knew she knew how many Riverrun smallfolk had sought shelter in the castle.

Sandor stepped forward, his voice a low growl, “If you really think–”

“Enough,” Jon Snow snapped. He studied her carefully, either for the sake of those surrounding them or to look for traces of his sister that didn’t exist, she did not know. “And what does your god say to do now?”

When Bran was insistent that they did not have to do anything to prevent the Lady of Starfall from marching her army south to Riverrun, they had all objected. But they knew better than to question him, knew he didn’t have time to explain the thousands of strains of history that had led him to his conclusion. He had told his sister in secret right before she had left, but only because he had no choice, if she was to convince the princess of his words about her parents.

“Just because you do not believe in him, does not mean he has no more plans for you. You are the prince that was promised, the song of fire of ice,” Lady Melisandre said again. When she turned to look at the princess, her expression was guarded. “You will need to be careful in the Riverlands, your highness. The lions have learned to swim.”

“You speak as though you won’t be coming with us,” Princess Elia said.

“The Lord has different plans for me,” Lady Melisandre said before accepting the vial from Lady Ladybright. She smelled it discreetly. Milk of the poppy mixed with something that smelled like oranges but headier and slightly sour – lightshade, something to slow down her bleeding. She nodded her head in thanks before drinking it. “The Long Night did not die with its king. I must leave now, if I am to beat the winds of winter.”

“But where are you going?” the princess pushed.

The Red Priestess accepted the help of the Dornish healer, knowing she would be on her own for the rest of the journey. Luckily, she had not jumped into the ice, for even if she had somehow survived, she would’ve surely died in the night from the cold. But it was too much a risk with the dragon queen there to leave with her named companions again. Someone would find them; neither of them could hide well even in their best efforts. She had thought Bran’s words, when he had finally explained that not all prophecies had strong enough magic to come true. However, even when the words had lost their magic, someone would often fulfil them through seeking out or running away from them all on their own.

That had come right after he repeated the prophecy told to Cersei Lannister. He said they needed to put their faith in Jaime Lannister to kill his own sister, as Maggie the Frog, a powerful greenseer and woods witch according to her brother, had foretold decades prior. She might’ve been wrong at the number of children the lion queen would bare, but she was right that they had all died. Death was a different sort of magic.

Bran promised he would tell Sansa what he had told her to do after the Twins – that she would have to leave alone, if they had failed. He had warned her about what could happen at the Twins in the way he only ever vaguely did, but he had left out the possibility of being burned alive by dragonfire. She supposed that was always a risk, with them actively plotting against a woman with two dragons, but they had no way of knowing how many of the women and children survived. The Frey women had run to the nearest town, screaming to everyone what Daenerys Targaryen had done, but also hopefully what the North had done: freeing them. Meanwhile, Jaime had ordered the Lannister soldiers to hide in the swamps until Daenerys had left the castle and they could march west.

Varys had already sent word to Cersei of Sansa’s quiet acceptance of alliance, and news of them saving the lion soldiers would spread, even when those same soldiers were no longer in Cersei’s army. They were her brother’s. (Once the war was won, they would be given the choice to pledge their swords to the North or to go serve whichever lord had claimed the Rock.) Littlefinger would confirm whispers of Sansa Stark wanting to overthrow Jon and his queen and bend the knee to Cersei, if it meant peace and dead dragons.

“The Lord of Light does not always give us the answers we want, but I have seen much in the flames. You have your father’s heart, but you look so much like your mother,” Lady Melisandre said, making the princess’s brows scrunch in confusion.

“No, I don’t. Everyone says I look like my father’s side of the family,” she said before shrugging. “I only ever met my cousin, Edric, and we looked alike. More than my mom’s side of the family, anyway.”

“You can always find truth in someone’s eyes. You can hide from it or deny it, but the truth won’t bend to your will. And I’ve seen your eyes before, Elia Dayne, Princess of Dorne and Sword of the Morning. House Dayne runs strong in your blood.”

“Careful with that one,” the Hound said, tilting his head at her meaningfully. “I’m sure you’ve heard what she did to that Gendry kid for _his_ blood.”

“I did,” Princess Elia said carefully, never taking her mismatched eyes from her. “Good thing I’m only a princess, then, and there’s more powerful blood for her to seduce.”

Lady Melisandre did not wince when Lady Sarella finished wrapping up her wounds. She thanked her before standing up and walking towards Princess Elia. She put her hand on her shoulder, trying to keep her natural grace despite the pain in her leg, moving close enough until her whisper was barely a breath, “Ask the woman you call mother the truth before it is too late.”

Immediately, there was a tight grip at her elbow, holding her in place. “And why can’t you tell me now?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Lady Melisandre said. She looked into her eyes, one purple and one blue, her expression dark as she thought of what men were to the gods. How little the Lady of Starfall meant to them. “There are too many ears to hear our whispers, princess. Your truth is your own to find. You have Dawn at your hip, but the darkness will always follow you.”

“You godly people can never just give a straight answer, can you?” she asked, finally letting go of her.

The Red Priestess smiled at her darkly, deciding to trust her instincts, before motioning to the tent flap. “If you would escort me to a horse, your highness,” the Red Priestess said.

The princess stared at her for another intense moment before moving to put back on her armor and cover herself in a thick fur cloak. 

“Promise me you’ll come back here as soon as she leaves,” Lady Sarella said.

“I promise to stay out of the range of the arrows, but I _will_ command my men,” the princess responded firmly.

Before they left the tent, Lady Melisandre turned around to Jon Snow and added, “The North remembers, Jon Snow. Remember what you are fighting for.”

They walked through the small group of readied tents in silence, other than the few women and men who approached their princess for a question or two. The Dornish’s skins were all wan from the cold, chapped lips and shivering forms looking like ghosts of the army that had helped kill the Night King. When they neared the edge of the campsite, a soldier gave her a horse, and the two women walked together away from the graveyard.

“Sometimes it is better for secrets to stay hidden in the shadows for no one to see. The truth will be hard to hear, princess,” she said once they were alone away from listening ears.

“You said she’s not my mother. Why would you say that?” the princess huffed.

“Because it’s true,” Lady Melisandre said, never one to hold back when revealing the harsh nature of her god. “The gods were very cruel to your mother – your _real_ mother. They gave her a man to love, and he loved her back. Too much, in fact.”

“If you must know, ask Myria of Sandstone, and she will confirm what I’ve told you. Sometimes it is easier to hear these words from someone we love,” she said again before climbing on the horse. She nodded her head in goodbye. “I will see you again, Elia Dayne of Starfall.”

With that, she rode south to King’s Landing, waiting several miles before ditching everything that could identify the Northern breed as a military horse and becoming No One once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this chapter... I adore Arya, but her chapters are always so hard for me. And before anyone tells me this, I know that Daenerys wasn't on Arya's list, but I firmly believe she keeps an actively changing tally of everyone she wants to kill... (also, I would like it noted I believe the people negotiating would be at a lower level, hence why she survived the jump.)


	44. Jon

Jon stared at the twin spirals of black smoke drifting towards the too bright sky. Both the Hound and Jaime Lannister had disappeared in the commotion, and that had been days ago. No one had been inside the castle yet, the smoke still too thick. The sight of the half-melted castle belonged in one of the horrible stories Old Nan Used to tell the boys, not here. Not when he could’ve done something to prevented it. The sight sent a chill to his bones, but it was a reminder of why he could not afford to lose.

Instead, he made himself picture the sight of Winterfell in the same state. How the Great Keep would look as a mountain of ruin. How the armory would never be rebuilt. How the heart tree would never grow back. How each of his family’s faces would look when she burned them alive, if he would even be able to distinguish them from the piles of the dead all charred to the bone. If the dragon queen would burn their bodies to ash and he would never be able to bury them in the crypts where the Starks had rested for thousands of years.

So he stared, because he knew that it was not just Lannister men inside. There were women and children. Innocent people that had died in agony while he had done nothing. Rhaegal had shook him from his back when he’d tried to stop him, and Jon had felt how the dragon’s heart wept for his mother. He had been forced to watch like everybody else, being pulled back from running inside to help people flee. Arya had been inside, but he could not tell them that, and so he let them pull him away. He was glad to see that she had escaped – because of course she did. Even if it wasn’t her face, it had given him comfort. Even if they hadn’t had a proper goodbye this time either, he still remembered when she left Winterfell. How she had teased him yet again for ‘stealing her kill’ with the Night King before shifting more serious and reminding him that they were all alive because he had been willing to do whatever he needed to do for them to survive. But even with that memory and the fierce hug afterwards tucked away, he hated that he couldn’t give his little sister comfort after she had clearly just gone through something so terrible.

“Jon.” His shoulder’s tensed, but he turned around to look at his aunt. Her violet eyes were bright with unshed tears, but otherwise she now seemed eerily calm. “I’m going to King’s Landing and killing Cersei. She will regret taking Jorah from me.”

“Dany,” he said, walking towards her quickly. He offered her his arm before pointing with his chin at her tent. Her nostrils flared. She refused his arm, and he looked around, searching for someone who could help him keep her here.

But then she surprised him and walked towards her tent, not looking back at him. Only a squad of Unsullied had survived the ambush to kidnap Jorah, and they guarded her tent now. They were fearless men, but they now looked at their queen with narrowed eyes. The numbers of survivors reported from town was as could be expected from a dragon attack. The Twins was Harrenhal come again. The second Riverland castle crushed to ruin by dragonfire.

As soon as the tent’s flap fell back into place, she turned around, hands clasped in front of her. “Do you know what Lady Olenna told me? That all of you are sheep. She told me to be a dragon, but I didn’t listen, and she died. I stayed in Winterfell when I wanted to leave because everyone said it was the best plan, and now I lost _Jorah_.” The way her voice broke gave a glimpse the woman he’d seen in Dragonstone before she had started to lose so many of her allies and armies. Then, he had seen what her anger could do if left unchecked. “But I still have not learned my lesson. I keep listening to people, and I keep losing. No more. I can take King’s Landing this very night.”

“Please, don’t be like all the rest of them,” Jon said, grabbing her hands. She flinched, but he refused to let go. “You said you don’t want to be queen of the ashes. You said that you are different. Show them that. Don’t let Cersei manipulate you like this. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I understand. Ramsay Bolton manipulated me in the Battle for Winterfell. He made me– any chance we had at winning was gone because he manipulated me. My brother, Rickon– he was a _babe_ last I saw him, and he died right in front of me. I walked into Ramsay’s trap, and it cost me the only advantage my army had. Don’t let her look like a martyr and you the monster.”

Drogon had been hit in the wing, close to his shoulder. The dragon hadn’t wanted to fly since his mother had called off his attack. He was blowing fire at everyone who came near but his mother, despite her having tried to tell him to calm down for the healers. It was the only good thing about what had happened. That Drogon had been hit there, and Rhaegal just nicked in the side. The wound was shallow. The idea of her riding Rhaegal stirred something in him. The dragon must’ve felt their anger, for he cried out in the skies.

“You need to protect your dragons and remaining allies. Drogon can’t fly well right now. Do you really want to risk yourself and Rhaegal by going alone without Drogon or your armies?” Jon asked. When she narrowed her eyes, but still didn’t respond, he pressed, “Winter is here. We should send ravens to Winterfell commanding every soldier capable to march south before the snows get worse.”

“But you said we’ll need Riverrun if any of them are to pass the King’s Road,” Daenerys said, raising an expectant brow. The days were shorter now, and the setting sun meant many had already fled to their tents for the night. “I will wait for Drogon to heal, no later. No one need risk their lives needlessly. I could save everyone the time–”

“Time that will save _your_ life. Dany, please. You’ve seen what Cersei’s Scorpions can do. All it takes is one lucky shot, and you’d die. Wait until both your dragons are healed and strong and your army is there to protect you,” Jon begged, letting his desperation drip into his tone. He grabbed her hands tighter, looking between her bright violet eyes, so different from his own. Only the Daenerys, Tyrion, and the Dothraki had known about the Scorpions, but they hadn’t seen fit to tell any of their allies. Tyrion eventually told Sansa, who’s raven hadn’t arrived until after the slaughter had already ended.

Daenerys pulled her hands away. She closed her eyes, a tear finally spilling over her cheek. “Cersei will burn for what she did today. Jorah might’ve been flawed, but he didn’t deserve to die. He was _good_.”

Jon remembered what Sansa had told him about the man upon returning to the North. The knowledge enlightened guilt he had seen in the man’s expression at the mention of his father when they had travelled north of the Wall, and the way the Unsullied had all glared at the old Northern knight. He again cursed his inability to send ravens safely while in Dragonstone. Despite their time North of the Wall, he did not think the man deserved to be called _good_.

“She will pay for what she’s done, but not if you leave here alone. Please,” Jon said. He tried to picture blue in the violet of her eyes, and the light blonde a much more vibrant red, but when that failed he closed his eyes and pulled her into kiss. When he pulled away and rested their foreheads together, he pretended she wasn’t too short and her hands not too small.

Daenerys was not responding to him, but she wasn’t leaving either, so he decided not to push again. He opened his eyes to see her own closed, and he tried guess what she was thinking. When she took a breath to start speaking again, he found his relief immediate.

“Then we will guard the Dornish as they march for Riverrun. They will need to leave within the week if they’re not to be caught in the snows,” Daenerys said finally. When he kissed her in thanks, he was surprised when she pulled away. “I wish to go to sleep. I know that you will forgive me for wanting some time to myself.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Jon said, the words tasting sour on his tongue. But he couldn’t let his feelings stop him from saying what Daenerys needed to hear. Her tired, broken expression almost invoked pity in him, but then he remembered Bran’s warning that his mistakes could cost him Sansa’s life. Losing her beloved friend was terrible, but it was nothing compared to burning down an entire castle.

“Good night, Jon,” Daenerys said, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

Quickly taking her dismissal, he walked out of her tent. If only the castle hadn’t been burned, their men could’ve had time inside the warmth of a castle, maybe even a night in a bed, instead of a tent in the cusp of winter. Any warmth the fires gave had since receded as their flames faded, and there was little wood dry enough to give them firewood in the Riverlands. He was covered in soot and snow, and he couldn’t take a bath because he’d freeze to death inside his tent.

Jon was so exhausted that he nearly stumbled when he saw a Dornish woman already sitting at his table. “Lady Ladybright,” he greeted, despite the headache beginning to splinter his forehead in two. 

“I’m sure you want to get to bed after such a long day, but I’m here on behalf of the princess.”

“Don’t worry. I still have a long night ahead of me,” Jon said before taking a seat across from the woman. He did, firstly writing a scroll to Sansa of what had happened the first of many things to be done. Bran would likely have told her, but she needed to hear what happened better than through their brother’s riddles.

Was Sansa safer with Daenerys gone, or was it too late? Was Daenerys’s jealousy too destructive? Had Tyrion Lannister already seen too much? Were they wrong about Varys, and the Spider would betray them? He had seemed eager in accepting Sansa as Jon’s queen (still thinking the Iron Throne a part of their promise of peace), but the man had already served and betrayed so many kings and queens.

All he could afford to do was have faith that Sansa and Bran were safe in Winterfell. They were both incredibly clever, and the North was behind them.

“I’m sure it’s not hard to imagine why I’m here,” the Dornish lady said. She was covered in blood, likely after a very busy day of healing the wounded. Arya had told them that she’d seen Bronn leaving the woman’s chambers a number of times in Winterfell, and he wondered how a lady as gentle as her could fall for a man like that until he remembered that somehow _Sansa_ had fallen in love with _him_. “How is the queen?”

“Dorne will leave within the week. Our casualties are minimal, all things considered, and I know the princess wants to keep moving. Daenerys and I will stay to protect the army until we win Riverrun,” Jon said, hoping that would stay the case. But the Sword of the Morning sending her friend discreetly was a good sign that Daenerys’s display of power had shaken the Dornish princess. He knew what she was really here to ask: will the queen fly to King’s Landing without them?

“The princess will be happy to hear that,” Lady Ladybright said, standing up. “I will not take up anymore of your time. Good night, my lord.”

“Good night, my lady,” Jon said.

He prayed to the old gods that no one else would disturb him as he began to take off his chest plate. He put on the fur gloves and wool shirt that the servants had laid out before happily going underneath the covers. It was still early, despite the sun having already set. He just needed a moment to rest before writing to his family.

Sansa still said that she couldn’t tell him where Arya would go after the Twins. He was irritated that his goodbyes had not been what he’d wanted them to be, remembering how last time so many of them had died before he could give them a proper goodbye. Last time he said goodbye to Sansa, he returned by bringing their enemy inside Winterfell’s walls. He hated Daenerys for taking him away from his home yet again, and he was also annoyed with Bran for not telling them something that would change their plans so quickly. But he pushed down his anger at everything, only choosing to remember all of the good times at Winterfell. Most of the castle might think that he was in love with the dragon queen, but his family knew the truth and accepted them, and that was a feeling he knew he would desperately hold onto while trapped with his aunt.

The tent flapped open, and Jon drew Longclaw before he realized who it was. The blade stopped an inch from her heart.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Daenerys said. Her hand came up to rest softly on his own, before gently pushing down his sword.

“You didn’t,” Jon said on reflex. He took a deep breath, and the smell of ash clogged his nose. His hand flexed around Longclaw’s hilt, the screaming still ringing in his ear as she had burned it down. He could see the fear in Ser Jaime’s eyes during his trial as he confessed to what her father had said before he stabbed him in the back. _Burn them all._ His anger hummed in him, making him shake.

But he couldn’t let his emotions rule him. He had promised Sansa that he would be better than their father and Robb. Bran had informed the Starks of the secret passage between their rooms created for escape that had been forgotten a millennia ago, so sneaking in and out of one another’s chambers had been easy despite the added guests to the keep. They had spent most of their nights with at least one of his siblings teaching him as much as they could. And sleeping each night with the love of his life in his arms.

He couldn’t fail them. He _wouldn’t_ fail them.

“How are you feeling?”

“They killed him right in front of me. That terrible man was never going to let him go. He knew that he asked the impossible. That I would never stand down. He just wanted to see me suffer,” Daenerys said, apparently changing her mind about wanting to be alone. 

Her shoulder slumped, and she walked forward to rest her head on his chest. He knew that she could hear how quickly his heart was beating, but he was glad for the chance to hide his face, even if it the stark height difference was always another reminder that she wasn’t the woman he really wanted to hold. Her hands reached up to his stomach, shaking as they held on tightly to his tunic.

“I know how much Jorah meant to you. He didn’t deserve to die,” Jon said as he thought of faceless slaves the exile had sold who promised him that he did indeed deserve that fate. “I know what you’re going through. Our enemies want you to make mistakes, and there are cruel people like the captain-major who do that by making you suffer.”

“And tell me, Jon Snow, what _mistake_ I made?” Daenerys asked. She pushed herself back to glare up at him. “I might not have loved him the way he did me, but that doesn’t mean I loved him any less. He is– he was my family. You cannot claim that if you were in my stead and it had been Arya or Bran that was executed right in front you that you would’ve done anything differently than me.”

Jon looked down at her, her eyes red from unshed tears making the violet in her eyes brighter. She didn’t feel guilt. He could see it plainly. Those few hundred smallfolk from the nearby towns had been nothing to her. Would it have made a difference if it was thousands instead of hundreds? Did anything matter to her except avenging her fallen comrade?

“What did your advisors tell you about how my family won back Winterfell?” he asked.

Daenerys seemed confused by the topic change. Her lower lip pouted as she looked up to him, tilting her head in a way he was sure other men found endearing. “They told me that you were a great commander. You had less than half his men until the Knights of the Vale joined the battle.”

“Did they tell you how we almost lost?” Jon asked. At her nod, he added, “Did they tell you why? What mistake I made?”

“I would think that’s obvious. You made the mistake of still fighting when you had the smaller army,” Daenerys said before her pout twisted into a scowl. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“We had a chance at winning without the Knights of the Vale. We had everything in place. Our tactics were sound, but it was key that we made him charge at us. If we charged him, we were as good as slaughtered. I knew that going into the battle,” Jon said. He left out what Sansa had told him the night before. How he needed to accept they wouldn’t get Rickon back and how he couldn’t fall into Ramsay’s trap. A smarter man might’ve been able to connect what she was trying to say before he scoffed at her. “But Ramsay had our little brother, Rickon. The day of the battle, Ramsay brought out my brother on a leash. When he let him go, I knew it was a trick, but that didn’t stop me from doing exactly what he wanted me to.”

“Ramsay, he… when Rickon started making his way towards our side of the battlefield, Ramsay took out a bow and arrow. When he started shooting at him, I lost all sense. The battle didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting to my brother before one of his arrows. I grabbed a horse and I charged after him, but I was too late. An arrow pierced his heart when I was but a few feet from him. I lost my horse, and his calvary charged. My men lost the only advantage we had to charge after me and save my life.”

“I’m sorry what that monster did to you. I know your brother didn’t deserve to die like that, but this is entirely different,” Daenerys said.

“Is it?” Jon challenged. Even when he felt her hold on his tunic tighten – even when he saw the ways her chest rose and fell with her mounting anger, he dared to push, “Our enemies have the luxury of selfishness. They do not care how many of their men die, or if the only way they win is by some underhanded trick. Ramsay knew how much I cared about my brother, just like how Cersei knows how much you cared about Jorah. My mistake cost me half my army–”

“And mine saved the Dornish from wasting pointless weeks on a siege.”

“And it cost you your reputation,” Jon said. He couldn’t give up. He had to make her see reason. The woman he had seen peeks of in Dragonstone was gone. If he could no longer appeal to her humanity, he had to use the only thing she still believed in. Herself. “Cersei just manipulated you into burning hundreds of smallfolk through your grief. It won’t matter that his demands were unreasonable. It won’t matter that they executed your oldest friend right in front you. Stories of this will spread far and wide, if they haven’t already. She will call you the Mad Queen. Your father reborn. She will use this to convince the people that you are so power-hungry that you don’t care how many of them you have to burn in order to get what you want.”

“Well at least no one else will seek shelter with a lord who stands against me,” Daenerys said.

“That’s not–” Jon stopped, realizing that there was no point. She wasn’t the only person that those to ignore the truth when it wasn’t something they liked. He could even understand the shame of mistakes. Gods knew how many he’d made – and would likely continue to make – but he couldn’t give up. His fear was clogging his throat. “The people might not have a choice, and the Red Keep can hold twenty times as many of them.”

“Well then it’s a good thing Cersei will surrender. If there’s one thing that woman cares about, it’s her own life,” Daenerys said.

“Not if she knows she’s going to die either way.”

Jon remembered what Cersei had taught Sansa just as Daenerys reached forward to grab him. He saw her brows scrunch in confusion before he moved to put Longclaw back at his bedside. When he turned back to her, he took another deep breath. He had to use the weapon between his legs.

“She will never surrender. She will make sure the history books write her as martyr and you a foreign invader,” Jon said, tilting his head to try to catch her gaze. “This was the first of many of her tricks. We have no idea what plans see has for Riverrun, or King’s Landing. And if she knows that she is going to die, she is going to devise the most painful death for you and your dragons. She has wildfire, and she has a million innocent people in between you and her. No one can protect anyone, not even you. She will show no mercy, but she’ll make sure that _you_ are the one who looks heartless.”

“If those people would rather live in her old world, then they do not belong in the new one I am creating,” Daenerys hissed. The screams echoed in his skull again. He had never seen King’s Landing, but Sansa had described it to him many times. There was as many people in that one city as the entire North.

“You would kill the loyal ones and the traitors?” Jon asked quietly. At her silence, he saw red. His hand itched to grab Longclaw and stab where she stood. But then he remembered Sansa’s words from one of Cersei’s many lessons. _Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon. The best one is between your legs._ “Dany, you know how I feel about you. I will be your husband, and together we will build a peace that lasts a millennium. But the woman I’m falling in love with wouldn’t risk the innocent. She would give justice to those who deserve it, and mercy to those who have done no crimes.”

“What are you saying, Jon Snow?” Daenerys asked, her neck flexing in annoyance.

“You told me that you would like to be alone. Now, I ask you the same. I want to be with the woman I met on Dragonstone, who wanted to be different than the rulers that came before her,” Jon said, taking a step backwards. He took a deep breath, hoping he was making the right choice when he saw anger take back over her features. 

“Our first night away from the Northerners and their prudish ways, and you don’t want to join me? Even surrounded by Dornish who believe in expressing love wherever and whenever you can? You don’t want to comfort me after losing my dearest friends?”

“I cannot be with a woman on a path of vengeance. I want to walk on the road with you to justice and peace,” he said, praying to the old gods that he was making the right decision.

Daenerys watched him for a moment, her head tilting to the side as she studied him. Her small hand coiled int a fist, relaxed, and then coiled again. Her chest rose and fall as her angry blush spread up her neck and took over his face.

“Do you want me?” she asked, her voice both quiet but sharp.

“I do. I want the woman with a soft heart and a spine of steel,” Jon said, the conviction of his words fierce. She needn’t know he was describing another woman entirely.

“Very well,” Daenerys said, folding her shaking hands in front of her. “We will both send scrolls to our armies to march immediately. The Dornish will march forward, but we will wait to complete the siege until the Unsullied arrive. The Tully lord will know that it is _me_ to thank for his freedom.”

“Thank you, Dany.”

“I am that woman you described,” Daenerys said softly. “I do not need to prove it to you or to anyone. I know who I am. I always have. But I am glad that you’re giving us a chance.”

With that, she turned around and exited the tent.

Jon wanted to plop back down onto his bed, but he had scrolls to write. He took off fur gloves and sat down on his small desk. Knowing that he had convinced Daenerys to stay here and to defer from her path of revenge, he felt a renewed confidence in his abilities. He would handle the dragon queen, and his family would handle the rest.

The pack would survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to everyone celebrating and happy holidays to everyone else!
> 
> Poor Jon is now on his own trying to manage Daenerys... let's hope he's learned enough lessons to keep her from killing any more innocence! As Tyrion once said, "It's hard to put a leash on a dog once you've put a crown on its head."


	45. Tyrion

“They’ll be alright. They have to be,” Tyrion said. As he watched Varys and Missandei leave in the darkness of morning, he couldn’t help the feeling of trepidation gripping at his heart. He knew – _hoped_ – that they would be safe. Tormund Giantsbane knew how to travel safely in the Land of Always Winter, so he would be able to protect them from the coming storms. He knew how to hunt in night and snow, so they wouldn’t starve. House Reed had even volunteered to travel with them as their guard, Sansa declaring the family had to be ready in their keep for any southerner who might dare travel north. The crannogmen were excited to travel back home. Only Meera looked reluctant to leave, she being one of few that seemed to pull out Bran Stark from within the Three-Eyed Raven.

The servant girl who had seen the golden chain had also left for her home, newly married. The news had made him ecstatic, before he remembered to not underestimate Cersei. Why would his dear sister go through the trouble of leaving the chain unless she made sure that Sansa would know what it meant? Sansa had already been indifferent towards him since their reunion, but now she was cold, and he had to fix it. 

She was still perfectly polite and a stellar hostess, all things considered, but he had reading people down to an art. He had seen the very same look in his sister’s eyes. Any affection or sentiment he had won with her during their marriage had been lost, and her younger sister looked like she wanted to chop off his head.

“I hope you’re right. Westeros can’t afford for the queen to lose another loyalist,” Sansa said from his side. 

Tyrion peeked out of the corner of his eye, watching her watch the leaving party. Despite spending so many years in King’s Landing, the woman was a true Lady of the North. She was dressed in all black, her hair in simple braids, as she so often was nowadays. But more than that, she and the other Starks were the only ones not shivering or blue in the lips. 

“Except you know that it would be worse for her, if she were to be captured, too. Do you know what men do when left with power over a woman?”

“I couldn’t begin to imagine–”

“No, you couldn’t,” Sansa said. As the last of the small party left the walls of Winterfell, she turned to servants at the gate and nodded. The doors swung shut, and she moved to grab the handles of her brother’s chair. “The Unsullied will be moving into First Keep at midday. Do you need anything before then?”

“I think I can manage. Thank you, my lady,” Tyrion said, grinning when Brienne eyed him suspiciously. She might trust his brother with her life, but she didn’t extend that same trust to him. Even Jaime didn’t seem to trust him anymore; he had no idea where his brother was or where he was headed.

After nodding goodbye to Sansa and Bran, he turned on his heels to follow Lord Royce. He loathed the man’s long legs that travelled so quickly. Almost as quickly as his loyalty had been won by Sansa. How the woman had managed to kill the Lord Protector of the Vale and not lose a single knight was beyond him. He supposed the fact that the man had loved her father dearly had helped. 

Tyrion wouldn’t be where he was if he gave up that quickly, though. Loyalty of men was like the wind, strong when it blew but quick to change direction.

“Lord Royce,” Tyrion called once he was close enough. The old knight turned around, clearly not happy to have to talk to him. But even if Tyrion was having doubts about Daenerys, he needed to improve his relationships with the lords in charge of the kingdoms. Robin was young and frail; anyone with eyes could see the real power lay with Lord Royce. When he finally caught up, Tyrion looked around to see several people eyeing them curiously. Winterfell now had just as many spies as the red city, except he was ashamed to say he had won none. Only Varys had managed of all of Daenerys’s people. “I was hoping to talk to you about the future of the Vale. Once the war is won, I am sure it will be the season of weddings. And Robin Arryn will be one of the most eligible men in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Tyrion doubted he could stop Arya Stark from becoming the Lady of Storm’s End. The newly legitimized Baratheon boy looked at her like she walked on water. Besides, he could admit it was a good match. Splitting up the Stark sisters was for the best. He was already dreading the day the topic of Sansa’s next marriage came up with Daenerys, but at least she couldn’t marry Robin if they were both to be the wardens of their own kingdoms. And since he doubted Elia would marry someone not born in Dorne after the death of House Martell, the Rowan sisters were the only ones that would be worthy matches (His sister had named the old house the Warden of the Reach, and he only hoped Daenerys did not name her own to avoid another civil war).

“These wars have killed nearly every great house in Westeros. I think it’d be wise to wait until see who survives the next one before we start discussing such matters,” Lord Royce said. The knight had put off nearly every discussion he’d try to bring up, but he doubted the same conversation hadn’t already happened between the man and Sansa. He would push more, but one had to choose their battles. And he was more concerned about someone else’s hand.

“It’s never too early to start thinking of the future, ser,” Tyrion said. They reached the Great Keep, and he glared at the first set of stairs. At least it would never be as bad as the Tower of the Hand, which he was already dreading returning to after the war. “It’s a shame he cannot marry Sansa with her taking over as Matron of the North.”

“As a woman sold to her first husband, I would hope your queen understands that such things shouldn’t be commanded,” Lord Royce said. _Your queen._ When they reached his chambers and they sat at his solar’s table across from one another, he received the full effect of the knight’s glare. “When two people who do not trust each other are forced to wed, it creates instability. Husbands like Joffrey and Ramsay will beat their wives. Wives like your sister will cuckold their husbands.”

“You’re right that she deserves a happy marriage. Her family aside, you know her best. Help me to help her. When I met Sansa Stark all those years ago in Winterfell, she dreamed of a golden-haired knight,” Tyrion said. He glanced at the wine but stayed put. That would not help his case. “You and I both know it would be better for us to suggest the union than leaving the queen to her own designs.”

“Do not presume to know what Lady Sansa wants, boy,” Lord Royce said. He huffed before looking to the dying fire. Tyrion immediately hopped up to poke it back to life. Now that he noticed, the cold was biting his nose and fingers. “She’s already been betrothed to such a man, but gold loses its appeals when it’s fashioned into chains.”

Did he know about the golden chain from Cersei, or was he speaking figuratively? But even in his unease, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to dig deeper.

“Joffrey was no knight,” Tyrion said.

“Nor king,” Lord Royce huffed. “But I wasn’t talking about your incestuous nephew. That weasel, Littlefinger, betrothed her to a ‘golden knight’. Harry the Heir. He was beneath her. Just another way to try to steal power. The same as any man that your queen would choose or accept.”

Harry the Heir? He had never met Harrold Hardyng, but the name was familiar. It was a smart match. Killing Robin Arryn so he could win the Vale sounded exactly like Littlefinger. It would be easy enough to pull it off as a natural death when the boy was so sickly. Or he had been, once upon a time. Varys reported the boy grew stronger every day, perhaps saved by the death of his obsessively overprotective mother.

“Until the better option came along,” Tyrion mused. His fingers tapped the table as he thought of the unsolvable predicament. A non-Northern husband that Sansa Stark would accept.

“Alayne Stone was betrothed to him, not Sansa Stark,” Lord Royce said, his shoulders tensing as his voice took on a defensive tone. “It wasn’t a betrothal for truth.”

“Don’t worry, ser. I agree with you. But where is the knight now? I thought all of your men were here with you in Winterfell.”

“He is with the garrison left to protect the Eyrie should your sister set her sights on us,” Lord Royce said. It was unlikely. He had seen the Bloody Gate himself. Unless Cersei hired Bronn and ten good men, it was impregnable. No army would breach the castle. 

“A smart move. Winterfell is still overflowing with men, but I can’t help but notice the missing faces. Has there been any news on Lady Arya?” Tyrion asked. Sansa had said that she had only left a note that said, ‘The North remembers.’ He wasn’t sure if he believed that, but then again, he was also doubtful that Sansa would let her family out of her sight. She was so similar to Cersei in that regard.

“None. She hid from Westeros for years until her home was reclaimed. If she doesn’t want to be found, she won’t be,” Lord Royce said tersely. The old knight wasn’t as close with the younger Stark, but he had overheard he and Lord Barristan discussing how much she reminded them of Lyanna Stark, so he knew there was still affection there.

“You’re probably right. The House of Black and White certainly taught her how to hide in the shadows well,” Tyrion said, watching the man carefully. The way his jaw tensed and his eyebrow twitched. It was possible the Starks never admitted the truth of the matter outside of one another, but if anyone else _did_ know, it would be Lord Royce.

“You think she went east?” Lord Royce asked.

“You don’t?”

“I wouldn’t put it past your father to spread that rumor to feel better about never finding her,” he answered firmly. As if he believed it. Tyrion wasn’t convinced.

“And while hiding, she had professional training with the sword?”

“Everyone already knows how the Hound dragged her around the Seven Kingdoms for years to try to sell her to her family.”

Tyrion couldn’t help but laugh. Jumping off his seat, he walked around to the wine. He still remembered when Lady Olenna had been disappointed to find out he wasn’t a drunk. But she and Lord Royce were very different people, so at the last second, he changed to pick up the water. When he offered some to the knight, the man shook his head.

“They’re styles are very different,” Tyrion pointed out. Personally, he actually enjoyed knowing someone so small could be so deadly. But a large man such as the Hound could never know how to train her, with his strength and hers speed.

“You and the Spider are supposedly dealers in secrets, and yet you poke and prod as if you know nothing,” the knight said. His lips were pressed together. “She might’ve only been trained by Syrio Forel for a few months, but she is a quick study. A Stark trait, no doubt.”

Syrio Forel. Tyrion remembered the name. More, he remembered the head. Meryn Trant had proudly showcased the man’s head to Joffrey, even though he had let the Stark girl slip between his fingers. The foreign man had been the girl’s dancing instructor, except apparently he hadn’t. Tyrion had gotten to a point in his life where nothing surprised him, especially this. It was easy to believe that Ned Stark would support his daughter’s dreams to learn to fight after what had happened to his sister, Lyanna. He was only surprised because Varys had said nothing about it when discussing the younger Stark sister, and there was no way he didn’t know. He knew his friend had his secrets, but he was reminded of how Varys had always put an egg in every basket so that he would never bet wrong. What else was he keeping hidden?

Tyrion thought back to how Meryn Trant had died during a trip to the Iron Bank… in Braavos. After being trained for murder, he didn’t think it was too big a leap to believe it was Arya Stark that had been the one to end his pitiful life. 

The Vale knight was a better liar than one would think when loyally pledged to a house ‘as high as honor’, but he was still an amateur in the game of thrones. And after the Battle for Winterfell and seeing the faces of hundreds of thousands walking dead, he no longer thought the rumors of the House of Black and White were just stories.

All the more reason he needed to repair his relationship with Sansa, and by association Arya. The Starks were too dangerous together. As children, he knew that Sansa had stayed away from her wild sister and ‘bastard brother’, but these days they were inseparable. Sansa and Jon had been keeping their distance since the death of the Night King, but he was no fool. He had seen the same behaviors in Jaime and Cersei for decades, after all.

Except that Jon and Sansa weren’t actually half-siblings. They were cousins, and that made their love even more dangerous. He could only hope that Jon had more honor than Cersei. That once they were married before the old gods and the new, he would be loyal to Daenerys. The kingdoms couldn’t afford any more instability.

If Daenerys found out their feelings, Sansa would burn. And despite the Northerner’s frostiness with him, he dearly didn’t want that to happen. He had to weaken her, but not too much where she couldn’t hold the North. It was a tricky game.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and he invited the person to come in. When Grey Worm opened the door to announce he had a message from Elia, Lord Royce was more than happy for the chance to excuse himself.

“Sansa Stark is angry with you,” the Unsullied Commander said by way of greeting when the door closed behind him. He handed him over the unopened scroll before folding his hands behind his back, eyeing him critically.

“Worry not. Woman are a fickle bunch. I am sure we will be friends before we leave,” Tyrion said. He placed the scroll on the table before finally getting his goblet of wine. He had always enjoyed the game, but lately he had felt as if returning to King’s Landing was a death sentence.

Grey Worm did nothing for his nerves as he stayed standing as Tyrion poured his glass, sat back down, popped open the seal and read the queen’s words. It was a short message but outlined everything that had happened clearly enough. He read the message twice before placing it back down. He was half-tempted to throw it in the fire, but he wanted to look it over again when he didn’t have company. 

“Our queen has won the Twins,” Tyrion said, trying to keep his words jovial. Varys or Sansa might detect how his tone was off slightly, or how his fingers drummed against the table before he could stop them, but he hoped Grey Worm was not as good at reading people. “We should make plans for everybody to leave as soon as possible. The snowstorms have made no signs of slowing down, and she’ll need our support. Riverrun isn’t like the Twins. The Dornish can’t take it alone, especially in winter, and we need to do everything in our power to make sure that Edmure Tully survives.”

“I will find White Ferret and Azo. You will tell Sansa Stark,” Grey Worm said curtly.

Tyrion did not say anything to the command before the commander nodded goodbye and left him alone in his solar. His mind was both racing but not able to hold onto a single thought. He gulped down his wine. He couldn’t gulp down air fast enough.

All his life, he had been fascinated by the Targaryens. He had even asked his father for a dragon, refusing the reality that they were gone from the world. Whenever they had visited the Red Keep as children, he had loved looking at the skulls of Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes in the Red Keep and imagining that one day he would one day mount his own dragon. He had spent entire stays down in those tombs daydreaming of legends and finding long lost treasures. 

What a fool he was. He had finally believed in someone, and they were just as terrible as everyone else.

He loved the game. He was good at it. But what good was playing if he could never win?

It didn’t matter. He couldn’t give up yet. Daenerys was not the last of her house. Jon had the blood of the dragon but was raised by a Stark. The Seven Kingdoms was his for the taking. Tyrion no longer wanted to be hand, nor did he deserve it. After everything, he only wanted to go back home. He wanted Casterly Rock. His father swore it would never be his, but he was dead now. And Cersei had killed Kevan. He could only hope once his sister’s body laid in the ground that the Westerlands would accept him – grasp desperately at the only Lannister left when they realize Jaime had no intention of breaking another oath. He had found his honor again, and Tyrion knew he would never let it go.

With Daenerys gone, what would Drogon and Rhaegal do? He was fairly certain that Rhaegal was already tamed by Jon, but Drogon and Daenerys’s bond was unbreakable. Would he ravage the lands in vengeance for the death of his mother?

But he was getting ahead of himself. He needed Daenerys to fall, and it couldn’t be pointed back to him. There was a lot to do and so little time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well these have been a funnnnnn past few weeks. The good news is I have no *new* health problems, but yours truly has had some fun going to doctors and having like a bazillion tests done. I have several chapters outlined and think maybe 25 more chapters total? Not sure how the heck this has gotten so long but here we are O:)
> 
> Sooo this version of Tyrion is more like the show, but I think will always be self-serving. He's finally officially not Team Daenerys, but isn't giving up on the Targaryens yet. Any thoughts how he'll react to the news? How Sansa will?
> 
> Also got a question for you. I have 2 more GOT ideas, before I will likely start moving onto different fandoms. They will both be written eventually, but was curious which one you'd want to read first: Another OC-insert with more Jonsa and a Jaime Lannister/Original Female Character(s) from Season 1, and then the one I've mentioned where Sansa is the one to go to Dragonstone instead of Jon.


	46. Sansa

_She was running through the forest, following the scent of her prey. She leapt over a frozen stream, running further until she crouched in brush. She found the doe. It was not nearly as fat as its enticing scent promised, but it was alone. And she was hungry. The small deer was too busy digging its snout into the snow where a patch of stubborn mushrooms grew to notice her. She leapt at it greedily. It scurried from her, but it was too slow and her teeth sunk into its back calf._

Sansa shot up in her bed, panting. The metallic taste of blood was still fresh on her tongue as she looked around. _Home_. She was home, safe, in Winterfell. 

Sweat dripped from her hairline, and she wiped at it before sighing loudly. Whatever time it was, she wouldn’t be getting back to sleep. She climbed out of her bed, putting on a robe before she peeked through her door. Freddrick and Hannah, soldiers from Bear Island, were guarding her door. “If you could please tell the kitchens I’m ready to break fast.”

Once Freddrick was on his way for her, Sansa started to dress for her day. It was lucky that she sewed her own dresses, so she could make sure the lace stay near invisible at her side, where she could reach it without needing any help. She was finally confident in her body in front of Jon, but she still refused anyone’s help. She didn’t want the looks of pity when they saw her scars.

And even though she knew that her words to Ramsay were not in vain – one day he would disappear – she hated that the bastard was still there. That he was still finding ways to torture her. That even if Jon was the most patient man she knew, she didn’t want him to _have_ to be. That even when a man she trusted to never hurt or force her, her heart would suddenly seize up in the middle of a great kiss, or she fell into complete hysterics when he had grabbed her from behind.

What if Jon never came back?

Sansa shook her head, stopping her thoughts from spiraling further. He would come back, and if he didn’t – well, then she would work through it like she had everyone else. And whoever was responsible would join him in the grave.

Sansa forced those thoughts into the back of her mind so she could think about her dreams. That was the third time she had dreamed about running in a forest as an animal, and each one was growing clearer. She thought of how Bran went into the mind of crows and dragons and forced herself to stamp out the hope in her chest. The old gods had never favored her before. Why would they give her a gift like that now? Still, she wanted to tell someone about the dreams, even if not her brother – directly, at least, since she never knew when he watched her.

Ghost jumped out of bed, and she smiled as she watched him stretch. He had scratched against her door just as she was getting ready for bed, resuming their ritual of him sleeping with her from the last time Jon had left Winterfell. He trudged up to her, and she reveled to have someone to share with in her misery. She sat at her vanity, pushing her chair back until there was room for him, and his head immediately flopped onto her lap.

“I know, boy. I miss him, too,” Sansa said. She dropped one of her hands to scratch him behind the ears before braiding her hair. “You know what Samwell says. He always comes back. He will this time, too. The army is leaving, and they’ll keep him safe. You know us Starks. We’re very stubborn.”

There was a knock at the door just as she finished tying her two braids together at the back of her head. She looked at the purple bags underneath her eyes, grabbing some ointment to apply quickly before calling Freddrick inside. He watched her with Ghost with something between fear and awe, as most Northerners did the direwolves. Most kept a respectful distance, often greeting him with a respectful bow as if were Jon himself – which she was sure lore would one day claim he was – but a few were daring and tried to pet him.

“Yes, I know the South is a very scary place,” Sansa continued when they were alone again, as if he had responded. Ghost whined at her as she took her first bite. She never pet him when she was eating. More than once she had tried giving him a piece of her food, but he had refused it until she had eventually given up. He just wanted to be pet the entire morning, before he left to hunt. Swallowing her egg with a delighted sigh, she continued, “But Rhaegal is with him to keep him safe, too. They’ll come back to us.”

The air dropped in temperature with a barely-there breeze, making her skin prickle. Sansa looked up from meal, the sight of Ghost stayed relaxed easing her own thumping heart before she saw Willa sneak through the entrance. A Free Folk girl who had known pain even before she’d arrive at Winterfell, losing her mother at Hardhome, and then more loss when she had lost her older sister to a wight. Sansa could still vividly remember the young girl’s face when her sister Johnna, who’d been joined them fight off the wights when too many had breached the doors, rose from the dead to kill them. Those unnaturally bright blue eyes would haunt her forever.

“How are you doing today, Willa? How was your first archery lesson? Have those boys stopped giving you trouble?” Sansa asked. The girl was young, so they hadn’t wanted to risk losing an untrained soldier to the Night King. The targets had been reserved for those fighting in the battle, but now she was happy more could train. They needed every soldier they could get, in case the dragon queen marched her army back north.

Although using children for spies was not beneath her, she would always be sure to keep them happy and make sure they knew they were more to her than the intelligence they provided her. The secret passages of Winterfell were a well-kept secret. Both Varys and Tyrion knew of the ones surrounding the Broken Tower that lead to the North Gate and First Keep, but the rest were either still a Stark secret or collapsed. Willa was the only spy she trusted to show her the passages in the Great Keep, and that was only because her hand had been forced once the dragon queen and her followers had moved there.

“They were, but then I got a bullseye on my first try. That shut them up,” Willa said, her smile still shy even in her obvious pride. “It was my only one, but I still hit all but three inside the inner circle.”

“That’s amazing. You’ll be the best archer on both sides of the Wall before long,” Sansa said. She looked to the peach on her plate. The fruit was only a weekly delicacy, but she always gave it to the Free Folk child as payment for her whispers. The others helping her were old enough that they wanted the promise of well-crafted weapons and armor for their price, which she was happy to oblige. 

Only Willa wanted a sweet and nothing more, only giving in after Sansa had pushed. She had been originally been insistent that the shelter from the storms was more than enough. The girl followed her gaze to the fruit, licking her lips. She inched closer before she said, “Daenerys was talking to your friend.”

“Missandei?” Sansa prompted. Willa was excellent at reciting everything she’s heard nearly word for word, even if she didn’t know what the words meant. But she always required a gentle push to get started in her reports.

“Yes,” Willa said, nodding her head as she glanced at the peach again. “They talked about how Torgo Nudho is generous with her and gives her lots of kisses from lords and Daenerys said she would have to try it. Lord Snow has not returned to her bed, so she is excited to leave here. Missandei said how they needed to make sure the child was trueborn and not a bastard, but Daenerys said that no one would care because he or she will be the future king or queen. Missandei said it’s good they’ll be getting married soon.”

It was there that Willa paused. At first, she thought that it was because she was still feeling shy about the subject, or perhaps that was all that she heard. But then Sansa saw how uncomfortably Willa shifted between her feet and how her honey-brown eyes were looking back to the floor. She was afraid.

“It’s alright, Willa. I would never hurt you. Nor will I let Daenerys or her dragons touch you. Please, tell me,” Sansa said. She smiled as gently as she could, not wanting to push the frightened child too much.

“She said that the Three-Eyed Raven says he saw a vision of your father in the Tower of Joy. He saw your father and someone named Lyanna with–”

“You do not have to finish the rest,” Sansa said quickly, looking around as if the walls had ears. She cursed every time that the secret was shared with another. When Varys had revealed that Daenerys had told him, she had been surprised. Why would she trust a man with so many secrets that he could pick and choose which ones to share if he believed it was best for the Seven Kingdoms? She knew she would tell Missandei at some point, too, but now even a Free Folk child knew. She turned around in her seat until she was fully facing the girl, not caring how her toast was growing cold beside her. “Willa, I need you to listen to me. You cannot repeat what you heard to anyone.”

“I never do,” Willa said. She crossed her arms, clearly offended.

“I know you don’t. I trust you. That’s why I asked you to help me listen,” Sansa said. She raised her hand until the girl stepped close enough that she could take it. In a soft whisper that no ears pressed against doors or walls would be able to hear, she continued, “But Jon will be in danger if anyone finds out. People will want him to leave us and live in the South if they find out.”

“I won’t tell,” she said firmly.

“Good. I know you won’t. Now, what else did you hear?”

“Missandei asked if Jon was going to become king, but Daenerys said no. That they’d only want him as king over her because he’s a man. Missandei says it’s good that they’re getting married soon, and Daenerys says she isn’t going to let Jon come back to the North before they’re wed. Then she said that you’re trying to steal Missandei from her because you’re mani– mani–”

“Manipulate?” Sansa encouraged.

“Yes, you’re trying to manipulate her, so Missandei said she would be careful. Then Daenerys said she’s going to use Missandei against you. She said you’re going to marry Tormund, but Missandei said it’s too soon. Then Missandei told her that after she wins her throne she wants to go back to Naath with Torgo Nudho. She says she wants to go home because children are still being stolen from the beaches and Naath doesn’t have protection.”

Sansa leaned closer in her seat, knowing that she was getting to the good part. The part that she could use to destroy her family’s enemies.

“Daenerys was sad that her friend wanted to leave so she blamed you. She got mad thinking she’s going to take her army and said that they’re staying here. But Varys or Tyrion will help her talk to someone named Daa– Daario Naharis can help her. And then she said that all of you are underestimating her. And then you walked in,” Willa said.

“Thank you, Willa. That information is very helpful,” Sansa said.

“I also found a scroll from Lord Tyrion. I saw him receive it after Tormund and them left. He asked Bran not to tell anyone what happened at the Twins, but Bran said he couldn’t hide it. I followed Tyrion to atop the Broken Tower. He still hasn’t talked to anyone else about it, and he was still there when I looked through the windows on my way to his room and then to you. I think he’s watching for ravens so he can stop them. I can go back to watch him if you have no one else, but you have to know,” Willa said as she looked to the floor. 

Sansa remembered the bad feeling she’d felt when Bran had told her that Tyrion would push him to dinner that night. Even though she has seen more of the boy she remembered since the Night King and him army were defeated, he still remained stubbornly vague for certain parts of his plan. She almost frowned until she realized the girl in front of her had started shaking. 

Immediately, Sansa squeezed her hand. Willa stayed staring at the floor, but her small hand’s grip was surprisingly strong. “Tell me what you need from me. Did what the scroll said frighten you?”

When Willa nodded, but didn’t speak, Sansa resisted the urge to hug the girl. She would comfort her, but she couldn’t do that properly if her imagination was running wild with the possibilities. So instead she tried a different question. “Where did you find the scroll?”

“In a floorboard he’s loosened underneath his desk,” she said.

“And how did you manage to discover that?” Sansa said, letting her voice warm. It was a voice reserved only for the girl in front of her. She would never replace her mother, but she was glad she could help the girl. Johnna had asked Sansa before the Battle of the Bastards if she and her sister could stay and work in Winterfell after the wars were won. She had said yes readily, but she hadn’t known them better than that. Arya had been the one working directly with the castle’s spies until she’d left. But the small girl was exceedingly clever, and Sansa had taken her under her wing.

“I was kneeling underneath the desk looking for hidden compartments. It creaked differently,” Willa said, shrugging tightly. She wasn’t shaking anymore, at least. The girl took a deep breath before she continued, “Lord Hand, I write this to you with good faith that you will do the right thing. The Golden Company demanded that our queen give up her claim or Ser Jorah would die. I believe you already know her answer. Our failure to save him was too stressful for her. The Twins is now Harrenhal come again. The Golden Company had invited in smallfolk to the castle for protection. There is no way for us to know how many survived, but I would not hope for many. Make haste south. The queen needs your council now more than ever. Elia Dayne, Princess of Dorne, Lady of Starfall and Sword of the Morning.”

Sansa sat frozen. She knew that Daenerys had been ruthless to masters, lords, and armies, but she had somehow hoped she would be different when the smallfolk – the _innocent_ – were involved. Her madness was inevitable, but her history in Essos had led Sansa to believe that they had more time. The Twins was not a stronghold like Winterfell, but she knew that best case was that hundreds had died. It was a cruel tactic by the Golden Company, but it was effective. If she didn’t want to hurt the smallfolk with her dragons, they had a chance at victory. If she didn’t care – well, she would forever be known as a conqueror and not a liberator.

The letter hadn’t said anything about Jon. She desperately hoped he hadn’t been on Rhaegal’s back when it happened, but if he wasn’t that meant that he was in danger himself.

“What’s Harrenhal? Another castle?” Willa asked when she was still quiet.

“Yes,” Sansa said, her voice scratchy. The girl would hear it eventually – Cersei would make sure of it, her mad ancestors come again – so it was better to hear from her. She cleared her throat before continuing, “It was once the largest castle in all of Westeros. It was supposed to be the greatest fortress ever built. Towers so tall they reached the clouds, and walls stronger than any siege weapons could infiltrate. But when Aegon the Conqueror first came to Westeros with his dragons, he unleashed his dragon Balerion to burn its king alive in his own home before turning towards the rest of the castle. Those tall towers collapsed and those strong walls melted away, until only a skeleton of the castle remained.”

“That’s why you and King Crow don’t want her as queen. You were scared she would do something like this, and you were right. You’re always right,” Willa said.

“Not always. Nobody is always right, but I try to do the best I can do defend my people,” Sansa said, trying to think how best to explain it. “And it’s more than that. We don’t want to bow to a southerner ever again.”

“_You_ are a southerner, Lady Stark,” Willa said, smiling weakly despite what she’d just told and heard. “And what’s the difference? Kneeling is kneeling.”

“It’s all the difference, Willa. Kneeling should never be done lightly. If you pledge yourself to someone, you want to make sure that it’s someone worth defending. Someone that will defend you, too. The North bent their knees to the Starks thousands of years ago so that we could help them survive the winter. It was a great honor, and it still is, to be trusted by so many people. Daenerys and the South are different. They don’t care about the North. They just want our land and resources. Why should we bend the knee to someone like that?”

“What if she does to Winterfell what she did to the Twins?”

“We’re doing everything in our power so that doesn’t happen,” Sansa promised. She could only help it was enough. Her family might be physically separated right now, but they were still working together. They would defeat their enemies. The North had been fighting for independence for years, and she would give them that if it was the last thing she did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oo is someone having wolf dreams?! And our girl being her own spy master feat. Willa. I gotta say, we only knew Karsi for like one second, but I loved her. It reminds me of Haldir from LOTR. Like you barely meet them but then they die like a bad ass.
> 
> Up next, Cersei unable to ignore her illness any longer...


End file.
